Going Home Again
by rosiesbar
Summary: Part 5 of my 'In All Kinds of Weather' series. Set shortly after previous fic, 'Out'; Hawkeye has returned home to Maine to pick up the pieces of his life, but his sanctuary is threatened from within, as his well-meaning father begins to ask questions. (SLASH. Hawkeye/Trapper. Title is paraphrased from Thomas Wolfe's political novel 'You Can't Go Home Again'.)
1. Chapter 1

**Crabapple Cove, Maine – October, 1951**

The day had passed with little incident. In that respect, it was like every other day that had passed since Hawkeye had landed with a bump back to earth in Maine. After months of frantic surgery interspersed with periods of mind-numbing boredom, cosy, comfortable inactivity had become order of the day: vegetating in front of the TV, curling up in bed with the same books he had read through his childhood, or kicking around in the garden or on the front porch.

Today it was the first option. The couch in front of the television had become Hawkeye's little nest. He'd rarely moved unless to change the channel or scavenge for more snacks in the kitchen cabinets. He'd salvaged an old bedspread from the linen cupboard, and now, for the fifth day in a row, languished beneath it staring at the screen. Crumbs of potato chips, cookies and hastily prepared sandwiches gathered in the yellow candlewick fluff, but lethargy and misery prevented him from doing much about it. The rough scratch of the upholstery reminded him of sick-days home from school, being fed chicken soup. When he buried his nose in the aging cushions, he could smell his childhood. Here, he was safe.

He rarely ventured outside – the friends he had missed so acutely during his years away from the little town he loved would, no doubt, fail to understand his predicament – and instead he preferred to barricade himself in his boyhood home, alone and untouchable. This whole house was awash with nice, safe memories. It hadn't been decorated since his mother died, so every room was like a little time capsule, shrouded in faded wallpaper that was barely fashionable when it had gone up on the walls. Here, Hawkeye could lock himself away from the world. He would deal with the present day when tomorrow came.

Or so he had told himself for three weeks now.

Daniel began to worry – about his moods, about his career, and not least of all about the contents of the liquor cabinet that had begun to deplete mysteriously overnight. His son's return from Korea had been sudden and secretive. He didn't even know he was back in the country until he received a phone call. Now, Hawkeye was back in Maine, the secrets continued. He was cagey about his plans, revealing only that he needed some time off. Daniel avoided asking questions, but as the days passed they began to gnaw at his mind with growing ferocity.

But Daniel didn't like to pry. They were close, father and son, but talking about the big stuff – death, disease, the horror of war and all that – wasn't their strongpoint. So Daniel kept quiet, and Hawkeye kept moping. But now, as he stood in the doorway watching the light from the television flicker over his son's motionless features, his silence broke.

"You have a good day?" It was the most Daniel could manage in terms of prodding a response out of his depressed son.

"Oh, it was phenomenal." The response was uttered without so much as a flicker of an eyelid. Hawkeye stared at the television, the raucous laughter of the studio audience on tonight's episode of ' _I Love Lucy'_ filled the living room, hissing and tinny through the speakers. "I discovered a new sandwich – peanut butter and tinned pineapple on rye. I think you ought to contact the Crabapple Cove Chronicle, because this is going to take the culinary world by storm."

Daniel ignored the biting sarcasm. "Maybe you could help me out at the clinic sometime? Get back in the swing of things? I know it's not much, but you'll keep your hand in."

Hawkeye mumbled non-committedly and continued to stare frontwards.

With a sigh, Daniel tried again. "Look, Hawkeye – I don't know what went on in Korea, but don't think for a second you're not the first army medic to struggle to re-adjust to civilian practice. You're a bright, young doctor with a bright future ahead of you! You _need_ to get back in the game! You can't stay on vacation forever! So… how about you give it a shot? At least call Boston and agree on a date to start back up! I'll set you up with a few appointments here just to ease you back in! Come on, what do you say? Give yourself a deadline. I can–"

"Would you just _stop_?!"

Daniel fell silent – more out of shock than anything else. He and his son rarely came to blows, so for Hawkeye to raise his voice like that, there must be something serious going on with him. Daniel wasn't sure whether to be angry or worried. He hesitated, somewhere between the two, and gradually veered towards the latter as Hawkeye's face fell and he stared downwards.

"Sorry," Hawkeye mumbled, picking at the blanket. "I just… I got a lot going on right now. I need a little time, that's all, to cool off, wash Korea out of my hair."

Time. Daniel frowned. Three weeks and no change, and his boy wanted more time? How much time could he need? How much liquor was he planning on getting through in the meantime? How long before Boston got tired of waiting and replaced him? Would there be another three weeks of languishing before he even began to make progress? And as for washing… Hawkeye's hair, along with the rest of him, had collected at least a week's worth of grime. "Well… if you're going to be here for a while, maybe you should unpack, huh? Might make you feel more at home? That stuff you're digging out of your closet reeks of mothballs, it's been in there so long."

Sniffing, Hawkeye tugged a little at his jersey, and turned back to the TV. "What can I say? I'm reliving my misspent youth. Then when I've outgrown that I'm gonna relive my misspent adulthood. I'm considering rolling straight into my misspent retirement, but I need to cultivate a few more grey hairs first. "

The tone in his voice did not go unnoticed: the one he always used when he was trying to make a joke to cover some kind of real hurt going on under the surface. But the ability to decipher the details or draw out an explanation was beyond Daniel's skill as a negotiator. "Right," was all he said, with a nod. And, with that, he left the room.

Hawkeye burrowed deeper into the nest he'd made for himself on the couch, and buried his nose in the fabric of his college football jersey. His dad was right – it did smell of mothballs. And the once-white material was now yellowed and musty. And it probably didn't help that he'd been living in it since he got back.

He never used to be sentimental over his brief-but-mediocre football career. He was a gangly but spritely kid who only got onto the team in '42 in due to a lot of the other guys getting drafted. He wasn't a great player, but sometimes he'd managed to get a fair distance up the field as long as none of the opposition managed to get anywhere near him. He would never have bothered to reminisce over that period of history were it not for a few words spoken in hushed tones in a wooden hut in Korea that now shed a whole new light on one of those games: the revelation that he'd caught someone's eye without ever knowing it. Someone who, by a bizarre coincidence, he'd run into in Korea almost ten years later…

Now, it seemed, the football jersey was one of the few mementoes he had for a relationship that had both changed his life and ruined it. He wasn't sure if he should frame it or burn it. So, until he decided, he would wear it.

It wasn't the only thing he clung to. Through the fabric of his football jersey, his fingers traced the outline of his dog tags, recalling the way the metal had left an imprint on Trapper's palm when he had grasped them, pulling Hawkeye close. He hadn't taken them off since he'd returned home.

A ripple of applause signalled the end of the TV show, and Hawkeye deigned to leave the warmth of his couch and his blanket for a few seconds to hit the switch. Lucille Ball's beaming face flickered and then vanished as the screen went black, and Hawkeye returned to his spot – but not before fetching a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet that had become his sole and constant source of comfort these past two weeks.

The bottle was almost empty. He'd have to buy more soon. And with what? Shoot – maybe he _should_ start pulling some shifts at his dad's clinic. There was no way he'd be finding any other work any time soon.

He closed his eyes to the thought, pushing back the sting of tears, and poured himself a Scotch. He clutched the glass delicately between long fingers – surgeon's fingers – and rested his elbows heavily on his knees as he gazed into the tempting amber liquor. The enormity of his situation didn't bear thinking about, and he felt desperately, intolerably lonely. Nobody in this whole damned country knew what he was recovering from – except for one man. And that man had abandoned Hawkeye at the airport in Boston to fight his battle alone, getting into a car with his wife to try and piece his old life back together.

And still he wondered, in spite of himself, how Trapper was doing.

He shouldn't have gone there. He wanted to hate him. He wanted to just be angry. That would be so much simpler. But, instead, his anger and grief were mixed up with too much leftover affection. How could you be furious with someone _and_ miss them, all at the same time? Would that warm glow of adoration fade eventually so he could just carry on with hating his guts? How many more weeks would he have to spend going misty-eyed over every corny memory of the man before some good old-fashioned loathing set in?

His thoughts snowballed as he sat there. Try as he might, he couldn't stop his grief from running away with him – he could only numb it with liquor and swallow the sobs that threatened to give away his fragile mental state. He took a long sip. The first tears of the evening fell, and Hawkeye let them come, lying back on the couch and flinging an arm across his face as if to hide. He had enough Scotch to get him through the night. And as for tomorrow… well, he'd worry about that when the morning came. Another swig, another tear. Lather, rinse repeat.

Upstairs, the elder Doctor Pierce hovered in between his own room and his son's. He had originally planned to turn in early – he'd had a ridiculously long day of clinic appointments and house calls – but worry over Hawkeye's state of mind was, he knew only too well, likely to keep him up for a few hours yet. Instead of heading for his own room, Daniel moved through to Hawkeye's.

The little bedroom was still very much as it had been through much of Hawkeye's childhood. The small bed was covered in a throw that Hawkeye and his late mother had embroidered with little sailboats. A few anatomy textbooks were still stacked on the desk from his college days, and old childhood toys were still hidden away in the corners, awaiting the arrival of grandchildren so that they might one day see some use once more. Over the years, this room had seen the adult Hawkeye at his most vulnerable. He had returned periodically after breakups and during the most challenging points of his medical school career. These walls with their faded paint had provided a backdrop to more tears, heartbreak and tantrums that Daniel would care to remember, and Daniel found himself reminiscing to another time in Hawkeye's life which seemed all too similar.

He'd had an inkling that Hawkeye had been living with a woman during his residency, but his suspicions were never confirmed until his son had returned from Boston unexpectedly in the summer of '47. The moping, the tears, and the late nights sat up in the dark listening to a scratched old record of some Betty Grable movie – it all suggested a broken heart, even before Hawkeye finally came clean. The similarity was so astounding, Daniel wondered if maybe there was a woman in Korea from whom Hawkeye was distraught to have been parted. It would make sense – his son was all cheeky grins and sly innuendo when it came to girls unless there were actual feelings involved.

He could be wrong, though. There was no movie soundtrack on the turntable of Hawkeye's little blue record player this time.

There were, however, some new additions to the room: Hawkeye's army footlocker and duffel bag were stacked against one wall, still packed, and not even opened.

Daniel shook his head. This was not the homecoming he had expected. He'd been waiting for months for Hawkeye to come bounding back to the Cove, full of enthusiasm. His letters always spoke of his eagerness to return home – not even to his job in Boston, but to Maine. It had been expected that he would take some time off and return to his home in the Cove, but not like this.

Daniel was at a loss. He didn't know how to begin to draw his problems out of him – he was a GP, not a shrink – and so, until Hawkeye opened up of his own accord, all Daniel could do was get him settled.

He hauled the large drawstring bag onto the bed and tugged it open. The smell of old socks washed over him, and Daniel made a note to have some stern words with his son on the matter of laundry and hygiene as he set about unpacking the fetid load. Alarmingly, on top of a collection of rancid socks and underwear, Hawkeye had shoved his Class A uniform.

Daniel pulled it out, laying it on the bed. It was crumpled, stained with sweat, and quite repulsive. He smoothed out the creases, feeling almost saddened at the sight. He had sensed in his son's letters that he had no regard for the army, but Daniel couldn't deny the little glimmer of pride he'd had when he'd first seen his boy in that uniform. Pride mixed with fear, he had to admit, but pride nonetheless. Daniel couldn't bear to see it bundled up with his dirty laundry like that. He retrieved the rest of it, determined to have it cleaned – even if Hawkeye didn't want it, _he'd_ keep it.

He began to gather the pieces together, straightening and folding them. As he did, a slip of paper tumbled from the garments and fell onto the floor, rolling under Hawkeye's bed. Daniel bent to retrieve it. The paper brought a layer of dust up with it, and he brushed it off and smoothed it out from the rumpled mess it had been left in. As he did, he realised with some concern that he was looking at Hawkeye's discharge paper. He tutted and sighed at his carelessness. This shouldn't be shoved in here with his old socks – he might _need_ it. Records were important. His employers would want to…

But, as Daniel scanned the words on the paper, it suddenly became painfully clear why Hawkeye had hidden it away in his luggage – and why he wasn't in a rush to return to Boston. Daniel found himself actually shaking – with what, he couldn't quite tell – but suddenly it made perfect sense why his clever, talented son had returned from Korea looking so utterly broken.

Hawkeye stared at the ceiling. He'd tried to close his eyes and sleep, but his mind kept stirring up images that were neither comforting nor cheerful. His thoughts spiralled out of control, and he swore under his breath, got up, and jabbed at the button on the front of the TV once more. Another show started up, and the laughter of the studio audience filled the silence of the little room, the blue-grey light casting an eerie, cold hue as Hawkeye descended once more to the couch. He stared with unfocused eyes at the screen, grateful for the noise to dull the pain of his own churning mind, and unscrewed the bottle once more.

As he did so, the sound of his father's footsteps on the stairs prompted him to stop. Panicking, he fumbled the lid back onto the Scotch and shoved it beneath the folds of his blanket, hiding it from sight, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

As Daniel entered the room, Hawkeye tried not to react. He felt like he was being scrutinised. He shuddered slightly and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. "I thought you were going to bed."

"I was." Daniel's voice wasn't giving anything away. His eyes flickered towards the empty glass on the coffee table, but he said nothing.

Hawkeye shifted and pushed his bottle a little deeper into the blanket. He couldn't face the lecture.

Daniel hovered in the doorway for a minute or so, watching Hawkeye watching the television. He hesitated, seeming to debate whether to leave, stay, or settle in for the show. Eventually he went with the latter, pulling up a chair and sitting a couple of feet away. "What are we watching?"

Blinking at the TV, Hawkeye shrugged. "Not sure. It can't be a gameshow, because this guy hasn't asked any questions yet. But it can't be cabaret because he hasn't told a single joke." The audience laughed at some inane quip, and the host smirked at his own appalling gag. "That doesn't count - those people have no taste. This is entertainment? I've attended autopsies that were more fun." Hawkeye wrinkled his nose. The whole thing reminded him of the corny shows the army used to put on for them. Then _that_ in turn reminded him of how he and Trapper used to sneak away from the show under the pretence of 'checking on the patients', and he had to close his eyes to hold back the tears again.

"Hawkeye?"

His father's voice broke through his melancholy, and he grunted in response.

"I'm worried about you."

"Are we back on this _again_? I told you – I'll be fine! It's not worth you losing any sleep over, really!"

"There's something you're not telling me."

The grief he was holding back threatened to morph into anger, and Hawkeye shook slightly under his blanket. "There's a _lot_ I'm not telling you! I've been away for a year – there's a lot to tell. But if I start now we'll be up for hours, and you told me never to stay up late on a school night." His light-hearted tone cracked around the edges with desperation as he once again evaded the question, and his voice was creeping up in volume. Daniel sighed. Hawkeye stared intently at the television, but out of the corner of his eye he watched his father unfold a piece of paper and smooth it out flat. And the next words that the older man spoke caused a shiver up his spine that he couldn't hide.

"I found your discharge papers."

Hawkeye bit his lip. He risked a glance in his father's direction, but didn't dare look him in the eye. He turned for a fraction of a second – just long enough to snatch the papers out of his hands – and then glanced away again to hide his face, shaking. He scanned the damning words on the top page – ' _undesirable discharge_ ' – and folded the paper in half, and in half again. "Yeah, well, I always said I wasn't army material. I'm too headstrong. And I like to sleep in. And I hate green." He stuffed the paper into the blanket beside the Scotch bottle, hiding it, as if he could just hide away the blot on his record, silently pleading with whatever deities might be listening for his father to leave him alone.

Daniel sat beside him in silence for a few seconds. Hawkeye squeezed his eyes closed, pressing a hand to his head. His skull throbbed. Sweat prickled his brow, and when Daniel spoke next, he wanted to run from the room.

"Hawkeye, I know what they use those papers for. They might not print them on blue paper any more, but it's still common knowledge. I may be a civilian but I'm not totally uninformed. So unless you'd care to tell me anything different–"

"I don't _care_ to tell you anything at all!" Rising from the couch, Hawkeye turned and glared at him. His voice came out louder than he'd intended, and his fingernails were digging angry red crescents into his palms. "Don't you think I'd have said something already if I did? But no, instead of _respecting_ that, you had to go rummaging through my stuff! Well, I hope you're proud that you figured me out! Congratulations, Pop! Carry on like this and you just might make detective!" He was furious – not at his father, but at this whole rotten system – and he couldn't hold back any more. He had weeks of rage just begging for a target, and seeing as he couldn't let rip on the United States Armed Forces, his poor father would have to do. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was unfair, but this invasion of privacy was the final straw.

Daniel didn't shout back. He didn't even raise his voice. He just sat there with that damned unreadable expression on his face. "I was _trying_ to help."

"You want to help? I'll tell you how you can help! _Don't_!"

As Hawkeye spat the words out with an unfamiliar venom, Daniel bristled. _Now_ he looked angry. "Well, _maybe_ instead of lying in your own filth and drinking your way through my entire liquor supply, you should try _talking_ to me sometime!"

" _I don't want to talk about this_!" And, as if to punctuate his point, Hawkeye ran.

"And don't you dare slam the-"

The door hit the jamb with a satisfying thud. Hawkeye half sprinted and half stumbled up the stairs, his feet pounding on the stairs as a sharp ache began to pound in his skull. His face burned, his eyes stung with tears of shame. He couldn't take this! He would gladly stand proud and rally fiercely against Army Officers or any other nameless, pompous, arrogant ass who tried to shame him or insult him or label him as a subversive – or worse. But not his father. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing that disapproval in his dad's eyes; of seeing him shudder in disgust at his son. Hawkeye had fought to keep this secret from him ever since he'd set his first timid, adolescent foot into this world, and to have his efforts torn down, along with everything else, by a piece of paper was too much for him to take. He hated this. _Hated it_.

He reached the sanctuary of his room, kicking the door closed behind him. Now, he surveyed the chaos that was his bedroom. His bag was open, his clothes spread out on his bed. The stench of three-week-old dirty laundry was repulsive, but it wasn't the smell that was making him nauseous: His hiding place had been compromised, his privacy violated by his well-meaning father. This place no longer felt safe. He had nowhere left that did.

Furious, Hawkeye kicked the bag out of the way and into the closet, slamming the door on the untidy mess, and crawled into his bed, his worst fears realised as he tried desperately to process the implications of what had just happened. His breath caught in his chest, the words "Goddamn it..." spluttering into his pillow. He felt like he'd been holding back for weeks, but, suddenly, there was no point in hiding any more. There was nothing left to hide.

Release felt strangely cleansing. He knew his father would hear, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. It was the first time he had dared cry out loud since he'd returned home.

Downstairs, Daniel Pierce sat shaking in the wake of his son's explosive departure. Casting a glance over to the couch, he saw the paper that had started it all slowly unfurl itself from the mess into which it had been crumpled between the couch cushions. Beside it, sat an almost-empty bottle of Scotch. With an anxious, shaking hand, Daniel reached over and plucked the near-empty bottle from the cushions. He needed a drink.


	2. Chapter 2

**Crabapple Cove - October, 1951**

Strangely, Hawkeye slept well for the first time since he'd landed back on US soil. He'd cried himself to sleep, sure, but once there, he'd slept through well into the morning. Now, he awoke feeling strangely rested, albeit with puffy, red-rimmed eyes, and the smell of his old socks immediately assaulted his senses.

The events of the night before followed soon after, exploding across his memory like shellfire. Hawkeye actually recoiled, clutching his pillow and shrinking into a foetal position as he remembered his father sitting there clutching his discharge paper. Suddenly, he wished he could close his eyes and sleep forever and never have to face the world again.

But he had to. Outside, life in was continuing as normal. Birds sang, the flame-red leaves on the trees outside rustled in the breeze, and out in the bay he could make out the feint, distant shouts of the fishermen returning with the morning's catch. Crabapple Cove went about on its usual business, uncaring of the personal tragedies of this particular resident.

He had to face the world. His one consolation was the fact that his father would be at work by now. His Mickey Mouse alarm clock told him it was almost nine, so he dragged himself out of bed, grateful for the blessed absence of a hangover for the first time in weeks. The floorboards creaked as he made his way through the bathroom – he barely recognised the man in the mirror as he washed his face – and then the stairs followed on in a refrain. The old house seemed to announce his presence and movement. To do anything in silence would have been impossible.

Which was partly why he nearly had a heart attack when he stepped into the kitchen and saw his father standing at the table with a pot of coffee. "Oh, Jesus!"

The elder Doctor Pierce smiled wanly and nudged a cup in his direction. "Morning."

Hawkeye shifted awkwardly, trapped as if by some familial etiquette. He didn't want to join his father at the table, and yet he didn't feel he could turn to leave either. He hovered at the threshold. "I thought you'd be at the clinic."

"Took the day off." Daniel poured himself a coffee too and set the pot down on the stove to keep warm. It was part of a matching set Hawkeye's mother had inherited from her grandparents – violent yellow, and far too cheery a colour for this time in the morning. Hawkeye stared at it as his father continued: "Nurse Muriel can handle the routine appointments. I thought we could catch up."

Hawkeye bristled at the suggestion, backing out of the room. "You know, I'm still kinda tired. I'm just gonna–"

"Oh no no no no no…" Daniel scolded him, pointing a spoon beratingly in his direction. "Don't try to lie to me, Benjamin – you were never any good at it. We are going to sit, and we are going to talk. I've had just about enough of these games." He pulled a chair out from the table and nodded to Hawkeye to sit. "Come on, now. Don't make me chase you through the house. I'm far too old for that."

Hawkeye hesitated. He could sit or he could bolt. It was a tough choice, but he knew if he ran, he had nowhere left to run to.

And so, he sat. And as he did so, he found himself remembering the last time Daniel had been forced to chase him up the stairs: when he'd had conjunctivitis at the age of four. Daniel had prescribed eye drops to treat the condition, but young Hawkeye was having none of it, and would flee from the room screaming every time the dreaded bottle with its black rubber pipette was fetched down from the medicine cabinet. His escape plan was thwarted, however, by the fact that he only had one hiding place – under his parents' bed – from which he would be duly hauled out by his ankles and subdued through a combination of comforting words, bribery with chocolate and occasionally being wrestled to the ground. Eventually, once he'd reluctantly taken his medicine, he would calm down, Daniel would kiss the top of his head, and Hawkeye would forgive him for being so mean – at least until the next treatment was due eight hours later and Hawkeye would run off screaming again with Daniel in pursuit.

This time there was no chase. There was no wrestling match between Doctor Pierce and his no-longer-pint-sized son. There was just a long, awkward silence, broken only by the hiss of the gas stove. The smell of the coffee permeated the room, reminding Hawkeye of all those early mornings as a child when he used to sit at this very table, a bowl of oatmeal going cold before him, and watch his father prepare his medical bag for work. ' _What's that one_?' he used to ask, pointing to various instruments, learning their names and uses. Was it any surprise he became a doctor?

Hawkeye didn't speak. His discharge papers sat on the kitchen table in front of him, a damning black-and-white testimony to his failure as a draftee and a son. At last, the silence was unbearable.

"So, are we going to talk or just hold a stand-off over breakfast?"

Daniel cleared his throat, but hesitated. He'd finally managed to sit down with his son to talk, but now, the talking part did not come easily. "I was hoping you might start," he confessed, fiddling with his mug. "You always had a way with words. Anything you'd like to say for yourself?"

Hawkeye stared into his coffee cup like he was waiting for it to tell him what to say. Words were normally his thing, true, but not like this. He was quick with a line and cutting with his biting wit and satirical humour. Serious discussions and heartfelt apologies were not his strongpoint. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for what I said yesterday. And for drinking your twelve-year-old Scotch – which was fantastic, by the way. I know I wasn't exactly… polite last night. I'm just… I've gone through hell these past few weeks, and I took it out on you. And I shouldn't have. And I'm sorry."

Another courteous nod from his father. Then Daniel spoke. "And I'm sorry I went through your things. I had no business. I thought I was helping, but you were right. You're not a child anymore. It's up to you whether you talk to me or not, but I think you need to know, this is serious. Something like this could follow you around for the rest of your life."

Laughing bitterly, Hawkeye took a long swig of coffee. "I noticed."

"And I'm worried about you."

"I guess that makes two of us."

Daniel watched him for a moment, pensive, as if trying to work out how best to approach him. His hand hovered over the papers on the table, like he didn't want to touch them. "Do the people in Boston know about this?"

Hawkeye nodded and sighed. "Yeah. I went in… first day back." He couldn't bring himself to recount the story. Squeezing his eyes closed, he dropped his gaze.

His father shook his head. "They fired you, didn't they?"

Hawkeye grinned a shallow, joyless grin. "Got it in one." He took another slug of coffee. He may as well come clean now – there was no going back after last night. "In their exact words, 'having a queer on their staff would be bad for their reputation'." He spat the words like poison, and then wished he could bite them back when he saw his father visibly flinch.

Composing himself, Daniel adjusted his grip on his coffee cup and raised it to his lips, failing to disguise the tremor in his hand. "Is that… what you are?"

Hawkeye gave a joyless smile. "I'm bad for _everyone's_ reputation, Dad. It's my other specialty after thoracic surgery." The joke was almost lost as he babbled the words, twitchy and uneasy.

"No, I mean…" Daniel paused, inhaling shakily and setting his cup down again with a thud. He fixed his son with a look that was as unreadable as it was intense. "I mean… are you a homosexual?"

Hawkeye's thin façade of flippant humour collapsed. He shuddered under the harsh, emotionless questioning recalling the last time he had been asked quite so directly – at his court martial. The answer he had given then was not the kind of thing he could repeat at the breakfast table in front of a parent, but he didn't know what to say. There was a look in his father's eyes that made him want to crawl away and hide in a corner – a look that said any answer he gave that wasn't an outright lie was probably going to break the man's heart. But he couldn't bring himself to lie. He'd lost too much already, but he wasn't prepared to add his self-respect to that list of sacrifices. He owed him the truth.

He pushed back from the table a little, looking away as he scrambled to find the words. He thought of all the women he'd been with – not to mention all the women he'd _tried_ to get with – and then, almost as if trying to solve a mathematical equation, weighed them up against the number of men he'd gone with over the years. The number was smaller, granted. _Much_ smaller. And yet, the experiences were far from insignificant – perhaps even more intense than those with women. Did that mean something? Girls were, for the most part, a playful distraction from the pressures of life, and the passion faded almost as soon as it was slaked. Why _was_ that? Had he been pretending the whole time? Following some pre-determined pattern of behaviour laid out for him by society? Was he _lying_ to himself about liking women? No… Carlye popped into his head and vanquished that one. And then, a moment later, so did Trapper, and the question rolled back to the start all over again. "I don't know." His voice didn't quite sound like his own, but it was he who spoke. Tentatively, he pressed on. "I've never really thought about it before. I just… What's their definition exactly? I mean, I like women. I _love_ women. Is this an either/or question? Do I have to _choose_?" A nervous laugh bubbled out of him before he could stop it. He knew he wasn't making sense. Maybe _he_ didn't make sense? Was he some impossible sexual conundrum that defied description? Was that why his personal life was such a mess?

His father continued to stare at him from across the table, his brow creased as he sought for suitable words. "You know," he began, hesitating to clear his throat and fiddle with his coffee cup, "you wouldn't be the first man in the Forces to experience this. It's more common than you'd think, or so I hear. You're away from home, in some unusual circumstances, under a lot of stress–"

"Dad, no." Hawkeye went cold. There was something about the clinical way his father spoke that just made him cringe – like he was diagnosing a patient with some kind of disorder. He couldn't stand to see everything he shared with Trapper reduced to a syndrome or dismissed as 'circumstantial'. "That's not what it was. I know you're trying to make me feel better, but don't try and tell me this was some… temporary wartime craze caused by over-exposure to khaki underwear! This was _real_!"

"I'm sure it seemed that way at the time, but all I'm saying is that a lot of young men who go to war–"

"Please, _stop_!" Hawkeye found himself jumping to his feet, protesting before he could even contemplate playing along. This was, it occurred to him for a brief second, a potential way out of his father's bad books, only something stopped him: he didn't _want_ a way out, not if this was it; not if it meant being regarded as some kind of poor, delusional victim of battle-induced sexual dysfunction. "This was nothing to do with the war! I was _not_ acting under the influence any kind of battlefield psychosis! So just... stop! Stop talking like I'm one of your patients! I know my own mind – I know _myself_ – and I knew perfectly well what I was doing!"

" _Did_ you?" The elder Pierce was standing too, nose to nose with his son across the kitchen table. "Are you so sure of that? Because if you ask me, if you were in your right mind, you wouldn't have _dared_ do anything so…" He paused, searching for the word.

"Disgusting?" Hawkeye offered with a shudder, anticipating the direction the conversation would inevitably take. "Perverted? Please, don't sugar the pill, Dad. Let me know what you really think!"

" _Stupid_! You knew damned well what was at stake – how important it is was that you kept your nose clean while you were over there – and you had to go and do something like this! Everything you've worked for, all those years in college, and you threw it all away!"

Hawkeye sneered and walked away from the table, pacing the tiny kitchen. "I'll send you a cheque for the college tuition."

"It's not about the _money –_ it's about you! You think I _want_ to see you living on the breadline for the rest of your life? You think I want to see all your hard work wasted because you wanted to… _experiment_?"

Shooting his father a thin, bitter smile, Hawkeye snatched up the coffee jug and poured himself a refill. "Try to look on the bright side – at least it's the breadline and not the chain gang." He slammed the coffee pot back on the stove. "Which is what they wanted, by the way. Or at least Burns did – but he was still crabby from the time we filled his sleeping bag with coleslaw."

"You think this is funny?"

"What? The fact that I nearly went to _prison_? The fact that I've been… fired and blacklisted and humiliated in front of a military tribunal? No I don't!" Hawkeye slumped into his seat opposite his father, defeated. He sighed, staring at the faded gingham tablecloth. "I really don't."

Daniel shook his head sadly and took his own seat once more. "Why couldn't you have exercised some self-control, huh?"

Hawkeye wasn't sure if he wanted to respond to that. He knew the answer alright, but he hadn't spoken it aloud before. Not in Korea, and certainly not since he got back in the States. It was the reason that had lingered in the back of his mind every time he asked himself why he was letting himself get drawn into this messy affair; It was the ghost in the back of his mind that haunted him every time he lay awake at night and watched Trapper sleep across the cramped, humid confines of their shared tent; It was the unspeakable phrase that hesitated to make it past his lips every time Trapper held him close and whispered into the darkness for the hundredth time, ' _why are we doin' this, huh, Hawk?_ '

"Because I loved him."

And at those words, Daniel's face softened. It shouldn't have been a shock to him – it really shouldn't. He'd had his suspicions all along, but just… not like this. There was a sadness in him that was unmistakeable in its origin, and it broke his heart to see it. He had only ever seen such a melancholy in him once before – at a time when the soundtrack of ' _Diamond Horseshoe_ ' had played on repeat through the house for several days until Daniel had been forced to ask Hawkeye directly what had happened. Once it was out in the open, he'd done all he could to counsel his heartbroken son through the next few weeks, until eventually he was smiling again. Daniel had told him, in that knowing way that parents do, that he would find love again. And… well, he had. Just not quite in the way Daniel had expected.

"Oh, Benjy." The name was an apology, in not so many words.

Only Hawkeye didn't hear it. He closed his eyes, cradling his head in his hands. He couldn't bear to see the look on his father's face. He didn't want to see the disapproval etched into the man's features as he contemplated what to do with the disappointment that was his son. "He was everything to me out there. He kept me sane when everything around me was crazed. So please, don't try and tell me that what happened between us is nothing but some syndrome or stress disorder, because it's not – it was the _cure_ … He made it bearable." He sagged under the weight of his confession, relieved and yet terrified all at once. It was done – it was out. What happened now? He raised his head, looking his father dead in the eyes. Suddenly, he felt strangely detached from this whole conversation, like all the emotions had been wrung out of him with the shouting and the crying, and now there was nothing left in him but cold, determined pragmatism. "If you're planning on sending me to some institution to fry my brain or pump me full of drugs, just let me know now – and I'll pack my bags and get out, because I'm not going to end my days playing a lab rat for some quack shrink with a fetish for electrodes."

Daniel stared at him. "You think I'd do that to you?"

Shrugging, Hawkeye fiddled with his coffee mug. "I don't know. All I know is that society doesn't take too kindly to people like me. And society, I can deal with – I learned that the hard way over the past few weeks – but you're the only one who really matters. I've been hiding this from you since I was sixteen years old, and I'd have carried on hiding if it hadn't been slapped on my permanent record. You see, Dad… I can take whatever the Army throws at me; I can take getting kicked out of my job and sneered at by people who used to look up to me, but not by you."

They sat for a moment, and again the silence descended, only to be broken after a few seconds when Daniel stood, his chair scraping on the floor. Hawkeye, stared at his father, uneasy, watching as he rounded the table. Then, tentatively, the elder doctor placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder.

"I'm not about to do that to you, Benjy."

With an audible sigh of relief, Hawkeye allowed himself to be pulled into a hug. Suddenly, he felt like he was six years old again, the wool of his father's cardigan tickling his nose, and the smell of that awful 'old man' aftershave he always wore. "Are we good?" he asked, his voice hushed and muffled against his dad's shoulder.

Gently, Daniel smoothed down his hair and kissed the top of his head, like he used to when Hawkeye was a child. "We're good," he promised. "I'll be honest, this isn't exactly what I wanted for you, and I can't pretend I understand it, but… you're still my boy."

They broke apart, Daniel taking a seat beside his son. He slid his coffee cup over from the other side of the table, staring at it thoughtfully. They sat in silence again – not the awkward silence of before, but a calm, stillness, like after a storm. "You know," he mused, biting his lip as he searched for the right words, "you're not going to have an easy life with this on your records. I trust you're aware of that?"

Hawkeye nodded glumly. "It crossed my mind."

"Maybe it would be better if you stayed here indefinitely…"

Hawkeye dwelled on that for a moment. He knew he should be grateful, but the past three weeks of sitting on his backside and wallowing in self-pity had done little to alieve his misery. Staying in the Cove would be delightful, but what was he to do while he was here? He couldn't remain cooped up in the house doing nothing – he'd go stir-crazy! He eyed his father curiously across the table. "Doing what?"

Daniel shrugged his shoulders. "You can work at the clinic – whenever you're ready. No pressure."

Laughing, Hawkeye shook his head. The Pierce family clinic barely had enough patients to justify keeping Nurse Muriel on full time!

"What's so funny? It was always my intention for you to take over the family practice some day!"

"Yeah, _some_ day! When you retire – which is looking to be sometime around the turn of millennium, knowing you!" Hawkeye smirked over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Who says I have to retire? We can work together. It'll be a father and son thing."

The smile on Daniel's face was warm and hopeful, and Hawkeye hated to be the cynic, but the events of the past month had been something of an eye-opener if nothing else. "This town doesn't need two doctors! That's why I went into surgery in the first place; that's why I moved to Boston."

"We'll go part time – both of us."

Hawkeye sighed, running a hand over his face. It was so tempting… Return to the Cove, move back home, and live out his life in quiet isolation, job-sharing with his father and splitting their modest takings. It was a nice plan! Except… "And what would happen," Hawkeye asked with a knowing smile, "if the truth got out to the good citizens of Crabapple Cove?"

"Who's to say it would?"

"Dad, I hate to break it to you, but doctors don't give up their careers as surgeons a year after finishing their residencies unless something's gone seriously wrong! And employers aren't the only ones who know how to follow a paper trail. My setting up shop in our little practice would be like a red-and-lavender rag to a raging political bull. All it takes is one person – one patient getting suspicious; one neighbour asking the right questions…"

"You're sounding a little paranoid if you ask me."

Hawkeye gave his father a pointed look. "Have you _seen_ what McCarthy's doing lately? According to the popular press, I'm public enemy number three, right after Joseph Stalin and anybody who ever looked at a photograph of Karl Marx. I'm a sexual subversive, and therefore a political dissident! Trust me, given enough time, _somebody_ is going to say something! And I'm not dragging your reputation down with me. That's your clinic – it's your life. Once word gets out that you've got your army-reject homosexual son working for you, your patients'll be flocking out of town to Doctor Butterworth faster than you can say 'and I bet he's a Commie too!' I can't let you do that for me."

"Well…" Daniel smoothed the table cloth out and laid his hands on the table. "The offer still stands. We can invent a cover story for you. Homesickness perhaps."

Hawkeye sniffed, but didn't argue further. "I'll think about it."

"Where do you want to go, if not here?"

Hawkeye gave a shrug. "Back to Boston, I guess. I'll get my apartment back; try and get my life back together. I have friends... connections. It'll be like the movies – small town kid, big city. I'll do my adorable starry eyed routine and look cute! _Somebody_ might employ me."

"Ah." A sage nod from Daniel. "Forgive my asking, but… this man you met in Korea. Is he based in Boston too?"

A blush crept up from under Hawkeye's collar. "Yeah," he admitted. "But it's _nothing_ to do with him. Unless we wind up sweeping floors in the same factory, I very much doubt we'll ever see each other again."

"Oh." Daniel nodded and frowned. "Was he discharged too?"

"Yep. We had nice little consecutive court martials. A beautiful His-and-His romantic getaway to the sunny shores of San Francisco, courtesy of Doug MacArthur airlines. Onward travel not included. We managed to pay our way as far as Boston, but then… well, you know the rest."

Daniel nodded. He did not, in fact, know the rest. He knew very little. But Hawkeye was not particularly forthcoming. "All I know is what you told me on the phone – and that you came home."

Hawkeye frowned. "He went his way – I went mine."

"Hmm. Just like that? I thought you said you were in love."

Hawkeye ducked his head. He still felt slightly awkward when that word came up, but that was hardly anything new. "We were. Or I was. Either of the above."

"I see." Daniel sipped his coffee, and Hawkeye bit his lip. "I've only ever heard you use that word once before."

Hawkeye frowned. Even now, the memory of Carlye was still sharp, and it had taken him just as long to admit the truth to his father on that occasion, too. Would he ever learn? "Yeah, well… I don't like to throw it around for just anyone. Carlye was something special… and so was… and so was he."

"Can I ask where he is now?"

Hawkeye sighed – a sad, weary sound that made Daniel regret asking the question. "He went back to his wife, as married men have a tendency to do."

"Ah." The disapproval in his tone was evident, but the look in his eyes was sympathetic. "A married man, huh?"

"With two kids," Hawkeye mumbled, staring at the table top. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You raised me better than that."

"I did," Daniel agreed, nodding sternly. "But I'm not about to give you any more lectures." He paused, sniffing the air for a moment, and wrinkling his nose. "Except one. For the love of god, please go take a shower!"

And Hawkeye actually found himself laughing – really genuinely laughing – for the first time in weeks. But his father was only half kidding.

"Go on, get yourself upstairs and clean up. You've wallowed in your own filth for long enough. I've got the rest of the day off and I have no intention of spending it with my eyes watering!"

Smiling, Hawkeye finished his coffee and got to his feet to head upstairs, pausing to give his father one more grateful hug. "Thank you," he said softly.

Daniel hugged him back, then made an exaggerated show of pretending to suffocate, and eventually wound up chasing his son up the stairs – just as he had sworn he was too old to do.

* * *

A short while later, Hawkeye found himself alone in the bathroom, doing his best to reflect on what had just happened with an addled mind and racing thoughts. It almost didn't seem real – his secret was out and his father _hadn't_ tossed him out into the street! Even in his wildest dreams, he hadn't imagined such a possibility.

Feeling a little dazed and numb, Hawkeye stripped off, pausing only to sniff hesitantly at his football jersey. His father was right: it reeked, and not just of moth-balls.

As he tossed it into the laundry, the memory surfaced once again of Trapper's heartfelt confession, and the, just as suddenly, that of his subsequent abandonment. The feeling caught him off guard, like a stabbing pain in his chest, followed quickly by a rising fury . Time and time again he'd played out those scenes in his head, and it never got any easier.

The shower wasn't all that warm, but it was refreshing. As he washed the suds from his hair, he realised with some embarrassment that he couldn't remember the last time he'd washed. With no job to look presentable for, and no lover to impress, it hadn't seemed necessary. But it felt _good_ to be clean.

His skin prickled into goosebumps when he stepped out onto the bath mat, and he rubbed himself down vigorously. Now, clean and dried, he stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the thin, pale figure he had become. When had he lost so much weight? When had his stubble transformed into a full beard? Why had he allowed himself to get into such a state?

As he took in the unfamiliar sight of himself, his hand raised, as if of its own accord, to run his fingers over the metal plates of his dog tags. He'd worn them for so long, he had almost stopped noticing them – save for the odd moment of nostalgia…

He lifted them up, turned them over in his palm. Cut metal stamped crudely with a series of letters and digits. How could something so small and simple carry such significance? Now, with a feeling somewhere between mourning and a relief, he pulled the chain over his head. They seemed so light as they sat there in his hand, and yet he felt strangely lighter without them hanging around his neck.

Maybe it was time to move on.

Pulling on clean underwear and hanging his towel up to dry, Hawkeye turned and headed through to his bedroom, leaving behind an old football jersey in the laundry basket, and a set of dog tags on the bathroom shelf.

* * *

 ** _Chapter Notes:_** _The song referenced from the movie 'Diamond Horseshoe' is the love song 'The More I See You', from which the series 4 episode gets its name. I imagine that this was the movie that Hawkeye and Carlye saw on their first date when Hawkeye was first starting his residency. The movie was released in 1945 and starred Betty Grable._


	3. Chapter 3

**Crabapple Cove, Maine - October, 1951**

Another week rolled by. Hawkeye's mood began to lift, and it took some of Daniel's worry with it. Bit by bit, happiness began to creep back into the house. They were like father and son again, rather than begrudging housemates.

When the rent money came in from his Boston apartment, Hawkeye gamely offered a portion to his father, but Daniel refused. Instead, he simply asked Hawkeye if he wouldn't mind doing a little work from home, going over patient files. Hawkeye recognised a distraction when he saw one, but he wasn't about to refuse. Daniel took the health of the Cove's citizens very seriously, so those who were chronically or repeatedly sick were of some concern to him. Now, he could slip Hawkeye the records to attempt to determine some sort of underlying cause or pattern.

The intellectual stimulation was a godsend. Hawkeye and Daniel pored over the files together, sometimes staying up into the night, discussing cases while the TV or radio blared away in the background. Hawkeye replaced the Scotch he'd worked his way through, and Daniel was relieved to find that Hawkeye's midnight trips to the drinks cabinet had ceased, save for the occasional tipple.

But Hawkeye's fear over his father's reputation still hung over him, and as a result, he still refused to leave the house. He hoped that if he made himself invisible, the neighbours would never realise he was there, and then they wouldn't ask questions. He hadn't even noticed himself doing it until he realised he hadn't left the grounds for a whole month, and, with the weather turning colder, he hadn't even been as far as the garden in two weeks. He'd locked himself away like some sort of leper, with only his father and his medical files for company.

The loneliness was stifling.

And his broken heart lingered on. Several times a day his mind would wander back to Korea, remembering stolen kisses under a thin canvas roof, or whispered promises behind tin sheds, or even just riotous laughter in the Swamp at something the other had said. The slightest thing brought it all flooding back: the sight of a curly-haired man on the television, or the mention of anyone called 'John'. Any one of the funny voices Trapper would do – or a close approximation to one – was liable to emerge from the radio at any time, jolting Hawkeye into a temporary melancholy. The Marx Brothers were no longer his favourite comedians, as Harpo was now little more than a reminder of Trapper's tomfoolery in front of the camera, and some dark, bitter part of Hawkeye hoped that Trapper got the same feeling every time Groucho appeared on his television screen, wiggling his eyebrows.

His father began to recognise his lovelorn episodes, and would coax him back to the present with whatever distractions he had to hand – usually another medical file to scrutinize. Hawkeye began to jokingly wonder if his father was orchestrating some of these cases himself for his benefit – the Dr. Munchausen of Crabapple Cove.

They never really spoke of Trapper. Hawkeye wasn't sure if his father was respecting his privacy, trying to avoid upsetting him, or if he just found the whole thing too unseemly. Hawkeye didn't want to ask, in case it was the latter. He was grateful that he had his father's acceptance – anything else felt like too much to ask. He never even told him the name of the man who had captured his heart and kept him sane in the middle of a warzone. To the elder Doctor Pierce, Trapper just became "him" – a nameless figure who haunted his son's memories, his shadow casting itself across Hawkeye's features like a ghost. "I miss him sometimes," was all Hawkeye would confess to as he stared sullenly into the middle distance. Daniel would squeeze his arm, pat his shoulder, and then wave a journal on ear, nose and throat maladies at him. The conversation moved on. Trapper was never spoken of.

Neither one of them could have known that the day would soon come where this was to change.

It was almost November now, and it was raining out, as it had been now for three days, without relenting. Daniel had taken the evening off from his house calls, and settled in front of the television for a quiet evening in with his son. They ordered takeout, which Hawkeye ate with the complimentary chopsticks. Daniel popped some corn on the stove, and each had a couple of beers, huddled cosily in the living room as the rain pattered on the windows. Muriel was handling the emergencies, which was why Daniel looked shocked when the doorbell rang.

Hawkeye didn't move from his spot – it was part of his ongoing ruse that he wasn't here – so Daniel rose from the couch to answer it. "Don't eat all the popcorn," he said as he left, and so Hawkeye naturally began shovelling great handfuls of the stuff into his mouth. "Kids," Daniel tutted, rolling his eyes as he headed down the hall.

Opening the door, he was mostly expecting Muriel with some medical emergency that she couldn't quite handle – but then Muriel would have called.

Instead, there was a man standing on the porch, who Daniel didn't recognise. He had a suit on, but it was wet and creased, and stained with sweat around the collar, and he looked as if he hadn't shaved for a good couple of days. Were it not for his bedraggled appearance, Daniel would have pegged him as a particularly nervous salesman. There was a large suitcase propped up by his legs, and he had already removed his rain-drenched hat and was twisting its brim anxiously between his hands. "Are you Doctor Pierce?" the man asked.

Daniel hesitated. The man was making him nervous. He had a shifty look about him: his forehead glistened with sweat, his eyes darted this way and that like he was up to something, and he kept craning his neck to look over Daniel's shoulder into the house. "Yes," Daniel replied at last.

The man's eyes widened, as if the news were something of a fright. His mouth opened, then closed again.

If he was a salesman, he was a fairy crummy one. "Can I help you?" Daniel urged him, his voice acquiring a slight edge of impatience.

"Uh… I'm lookin' for Hawkeye. Is 'e here?"

Daniel took a step backwards. He almost wasn't sure how to proceed. Hawkeye had preferred to keep his return secret from the neighbours. However, this man was somebody from out of town, and, after a moment's thought, he turned to call into the house: "Hawkeye?!"

In the living room, Hawkeye had been just getting into the western they were watching. Or he had been – then one of the leading guys had turned up bearing a distracting resemblance to a certain curly-haired surgeon Hawkeye had once known and loved, and all his enjoyment vanished. His father calling him from the hallway was almost a blessing. Although, as he scrambled to his feet he couldn't help but wonder with more than a little concern who exactly knew he was even here? At this rate he would have to make his escape back to the city faster than he had hoped.

Padding into the hall, his bare feet slapping on the floorboards, Hawkeye sucked the butter from his fingers and wiped them on his shirt front. "Who is it, Dad? I told the locals no autographs!"

Then his eyes fell on the visitor loitering on the front porch, currently twisting his hat into some sort of origami creation, and he stopped in his tracks. " _Trapper_?!"

And Daniel knew instantly who this stranger was. The name had echoes of every one of Hawkeye's letters home from Korea. The look on his son's face confirmed it – wide eyes, slack jaw, and just a hint of that misty-eyed adoration he'd see every time he got lost in his memories.

The stranger – Trapper – spoke again, and Hawkeye immediately stared at the floor. "Can I talk to you?"

Hawkeye didn't move or speak, and Daniel shuddered with a sudden, unexpected stab of paternal protectiveness. He'd never seen his son so unsure of himself, and, as Trapper hovered on the doorstep, all Daniel could think of was all the time Hawkeye had spent during this past month staring miserably out of window; all the times he had caught him blinking away tears, trying to make light of his own grief with a joke. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to throw this 'Trapper' person off his porch and into the rain, and to bellow at him to leave his boy alone. He'd made his decision, and he'd left Hawkeye stranded in Boston with nowhere to go while he'd swanned back to his wife and his own cosy home like nothing had happened. Well, maybe he should swan right back to where he came from and lie in the bed that he'd made for himself…

But he hesitated. It wasn't his call.

Daniel watched silently as Hawkeye agonised over the request, loitering in the hall like he didn't know what to do with himself.

" _Please_?" Trapper shifted anxiously as he mauled his hat for comfort. "I spent all day sat on goddamn bus just to get to the nearest town! I had to get a cab halfway round the bay, an' then he kicked me out in the high street an' I've _walked_ the rest of the way! You think I'd be standin' here in the pourin' rain if it weren't important?"

His words hung in the damp Fall air, and, at last, Hawkeye nodded. "Fine. Let me get my boots." He eyed the rain with some displeasure. "And my snorkel."

The joke didn't raise a laugh. It wasn't intended to. With that, Hawkeye ducked back into the living room. Daniel glanced at the man on the porch. " _Wait_ ," he said simply, and followed his son into the house.

Hawkeye was already perched on a chair in the kitchen, tugging his outdoor boots on.

"You don't have to talk to him if you don't want to. Don't let him twist your arm."

"No, I want to." Hawkeye didn't look up. He tugged at his laces almost violently. "I'd like to hear this. Besides…" He gave his shoe laces one last tug and stamped his foot as he secured his boot. "There are a few things I'd like to say to him myself."

There was a look on Hawkeye's face as he left that Daniel had rarely seen before, and for a moment he found himself feeling quite sorry for the man on the doorstep. His son didn't lose his temper often, but when he did, it wasn't pleasant being on the receiving end. He had no idea what was on Hawkeye's mind, but he wasn't about to pry. Instead, he stood back and let Hawkeye go.

Out in the hall, Trapper was still loitering on the other side of the screen door like Dracula, awaiting permission to enter. Hawkeye pushed past him onto the porch without making eye contact. "Come on," he muttered, gesturing to Trapper to follow him around the house. "Leave your bag. Nobody's gonna take it – not around here."

Trapper's case – a sign of optimism or desperation, Hawkeye couldn't tell – was set down by the door, and he obediently followed Hawkeye along the porch.

The porch stretched around three sides of the house, narrower here than at the front or back. The top floor of the house overhung it, sheltering from the rain that was pattering onto the yard around them, forming large puddles on the lawn. The boards underfoot were grey and weathered, and the paint on the railings was yellowed and peeling. This was not, Trapper thought to himself, the sort of house in which one would typically expect a doctor to be living. Clearly the elder Doctor Pierce cared less about wealth and opulence and more about his hometown and his generations of patients.

Hawkeye strode on ahead of him, a familiar silhouette in a casual shirt and slacks one size too big. The only difference was that now he wore stone instead of khaki, and his shirt was striped rather than loud Hawaiian. But the navy cardigan he had slung over the top was a familiar one Trapper had seen in Korea, and the sight made him smile warmly in recognition.

As they neared the back of the house, Trapper saw an old wooden swing dangling from the tree that stood in the corner of the lot, swaying slightly in the wind as flame red leaves fluttered to the ground around it. He was struck momentarily by the knowledge that this must have been Hawkeye's home all his life.

"This is far enough," Hawkeye said at last, stopping Trapper in his tracks between a set of steps and a rather shabby garden bench.

Trapper eyed the kitchen window to his left. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Hawkeye leaned heavily against the railing and folded his arms, making his point. "I just didn't want to stand around on the front porch, you know? I'm trying not to let onto the neighbours that I'm here. It's a small town and people might talk."

Trapper wondered if Hawkeye's father might well start asking questions at this rate, but he dropped the subject. They were secluded enough – this side of the house overlooked nothing but the cliffs, the ocean, and the night sky – and the sound of the rain would probably drown out most of their conversation.

"This is fine," Hawkeye insisted. "Really."

Trapper shivered and surveyed the empty scenery once more. "If you say so," he muttered. He took a seat on the slightly rickety bench, still toying with his hat. Silence set in.

Hawkeye broke it.

"So what happened, Trapper? Your wife just not doing it for you any more, so you had to come crawling back?"

Trapper didn't rise to the bait, but instead he dropped his head and stared at the floor. "She threw me out."

Something that was almost a cruel smile flickered across Hawkeye's face. "Oh. So, you thought you'd try plan B, did you?"

"It ain't like that."

Trapper's voice rose just a fraction, and that was all the cue Hawkeye needed to pitch in for a fight. "What _is_ it like, then, Trapper? You tell me! Because last I saw of you, you were getting into your car with her, and left me in a goddamn street!"

"I gave you money for a motel, didn't I?"

Hawkeye lip curled. "Yeah, you did. You paid your whore and went back to your wife."

"Oh, come on…."

" _You didn't even say goodbye!"_ It was only as Hawkeye's words echoed in the night that he realised he was yelling. Well, this was a fine way to keep his presence under wraps… He dropped his voice a little – barely above a whisper. "Do you have any clue how much that hurt? Any at all? I mean I _understood_ when you were being dragged away by an MP when I was in the stockade – hardly the time or the place for a tender goodbye – but right there outside Boston Airport? When you knew – _you knew_ – you were about to walk out of my life, and you had _all that time_ to think about how to break it to me! And _then_ , with all the words in the entirety of the English language at your disposal, the ones you decide to go with are: ' _Get yourself a motel_ '?"

Trapper looked up at him. This wasn't how he'd wanted this to go! He'd hoped – perhaps foolishly – that Hawkeye would welcome him back with open arms; that he could sweep him off his feet and kiss him and make everything okay!

But Hawkeye was resolute – arms folded, his face practically a scowl of disapproval. It was hardly the reunion Trapper had hoped for. He hadn't been able to get Hawkeye out of his head for weeks, and how here he was right in front of him, and he couldn't touch him. Why was it never like it was in the movies?

A sigh escaped him. His body ached from the journey, and from spending the night at the bus station on a cold, hard bench. An angry, jealous Hawkeye was not what he needed right now. He sighed, rubbing his aching head. "What did you expect me to do, huh? Give you a farewell kiss right there in front of my wife? Like I wasn't already in enough trouble!" Was he being insensitive? He couldn't tell. But he'd spent so long bottling everything up, he had to let off steam. He rose from the bench, frustrated, gearing himself up. "Goddamn it, Hawk – you _knew_ what the score was! What did you think was gonna happen? We were gonna fly back to Boston, shack up together an' live happily ever after?"

Hawkeye's eyes went a little glassy, and he looked away for a moment. Was it _really_ so ludicrous a suggestion? He'd played through so many scenarios in his head on the plane after Trapper had found him outside the airport in San Francisco, it was impossible to tell when he'd started to believe them. Had he really thought Trapper would walk him into the sitting room in his nice Boston townhouse and introduce him to his nice Bostonian wife? ' _Honey, this is Hawkeye. We met in Korea. He's my lover and now I'm going to leave you. I'm taking the liquor cabinet, you can have the house. I'll be back to see the kids on Friday_.'

"Yeah, I did," Hawkeye admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Just for those few hours we were together, I thought…" He shook his head sadly. "I don't know what I thought. You talked about your marriage like it was dead in the water! I guess I just hoped that with everything we'd gone through for each other… the fact that we got on that plane together… the way you kissed me outside the airport… that we might at least _talk_ about it." He gave a bitter chuckle. "For a while there I think I actually thought you _loved_ me."

His confession was almost enough to make Trapper blush, although whether it was shame or pride was anybody's guess. Shame that he'd let an affair go so far, and pride that Hawkeye obviously figured he was worth falling for.

Hawkeye winced, taking Trapper's embarrassment for disdain. "Yeah, I know. Stupid, right?"

Trapper stared back at him. He was close enough to touch now – so Trapper did. Just reached out and cradled his cheek gently, his fingers playing into his hairline at the back of his neck, just like he used to. "That ain't stupid."

Hawkeye allowed himself to be caressed for just a moment before he pulled away. "Yeah, well… best laid plans of mice and medics." He waved a hand and slouched against the railing, his scowl back in place. "So what happened? With Louise?"

"You really wanna know?"

"Not really. But I can see you're _aching_ to give me your sob story, so let me hear it. I'm all ears."

"Your sympathy know no bounds," Trapper commented with a wry smile.

"I never promised sympathy – only ears." Hawkeye hitched himself onto the railing and perched, legs swinging. "Come on, now. Spill."

Sighing, Trapper paced the narrow decking. He was almost too humiliated to talk about it, even to Hawkeye. But he knew he owed him an explanation. "Where do I start?"

"Probably at the point where you ditched me."

Trapper winced.

Hawkeye's tone softened a little. "Go on. She picked you up at the airport, you drove off. Then what?"

Trapper took a deep breath and began: "She wouldn't talk to me. All through the drive home, she wouldn't talk. We got back, an' she'd already made up the spare room. That's when I knew I was in deep. So, I asked her direct. I said 'what do I gotta do to make it up to you?' She looked at me like I was crazy! She said… nothin' I could say or do would _ever_ make it up to her; that she couldn't even _look_ at me no more without feelin' sick to her stomach! She'd let me stay, but only so the girls wouldn't have to go through the divorce. We'd have separate beds, separate rooms, an' under no circumstances was I ever to touch her ever again."

Hawkeye frowned. He had to admit, he didn't _like_ the thought of Trapper being treated so cruelly. But he wasn't about to have his heartstrings tugged just to coax forgiveness out of him. "I can see why you gave me up, with a sweet home life like _that_ waiting for you."

Trapper let him have that one. "I figured she was just mad at me, an' I'd just have to put up with the cold shoulder for a few days 'til she decided to talk – but I was wrong. She was _already_ talkin', just not to _me_. She told her mother, _my_ mother, her sister, our priest. I walk into the livin' room an' she's rantin' about me like I ain't even there! My _folks_ … Well, you don't wanna know what they said. "

Hawkeye winced on his behalf. "I don't imagine I do."

"I was mad as hell, so I figured I'd go out for a while to cool off, let 'er have her little gossip meetings in private, an' you know what she says?"

"Uh… 'Be careful if you take the Chevy because the clutch sticks?'"

Trapper chuckled, but shook his head. "She says: 'If you go out, folks'll _know_ you got fired, an' they'll ask questions.' Like she ain't already told everyone whose opinion is worth a damn anyway! Next thing I know, I'm a prisoner in my own house! She's vettin' my mail, she stops me answerin' the phone, starts tellin' callers I ain't home…"

Trapper paused to compose himself, glowering into the middle distance as he sought to put his memories into words.

"My girls… they were so happy to see me when I got back. An' then all this started happenin', an' it scared 'em. They're smart kids – they knew somethin' was up. They used to sneak in to talk to me, like I was _off limits_. An' one day, Louise catches 'em. I had Kathy up on my shoulders the way she likes, and Becky was runnin' round my ankles. Louise came in, an' she just stood _watchin'_ me, like she wanted to see what I'd do. An' then Becky looks up at me, and she says: 'tell me about Korea, Daddy.' An' that was it! Louise came over to me, grabbed Kathy off of me – nearly _dropped her_ , she was so mad!" He was shaking, his hands clenched into angry fists by his sides. But when he looked up, he had tears in his eyes. "An' she says to 'em... she says, 'you need to give Daddy some space. _He's very sick_.'"

Hawkeye had no scathing remark for that one. Suddenly, at last, he was silent.

Trapper stood swaying on the porch, like he'd just relived it all over again. He shook his head, sniffed loudly, and turned away. "I wanted more than anythin' to pick up the phone an' talk to you, but… I figured you'd hate me as much as she did! I made a mess of everythin'! I gave _you_ up to fix my marriage, an' now it was all goin' to hell anyways, an' I felt like I had nothin' left! So last night I… I snuck out – of my own house, like a kid breakin' curfew – an' I went to a bar for a couple'a hours. Just… any bar, y'know. Just to speak to people. Speak to anybody. Strangers, girls, the bartender – _anyone_! When I got back, she thought I'd slept with someone." He gave a snort. "A _guy_. Figured I'd picked up a stranger and gone to a motel."

The incredulous look on Trapper's face was almost as funny as the idea. And Hawkeye actually laughed. He laughed so hard he had to hold onto the railing so as to not fall off. "You? With a strange man in a bar?"

Trapper shrugged. "I know! I told her that was crazy, but she kept insisting: I'd done it once, so it was only a matter of time 'fore it happened again."

Hawkeye smirked. "Right – as soon as the right guy comes along and seduces you with his roguish charm, his best khaki underwear and his very own third-party foreign conflict, you're gonna be putty in his hands!"

"As far as she was concerned, I was sick in the head. I'd been _tainted_." Frowning, Trapper kicked at a pebble on the decking. "She said you'd _corrupted_ me."

Hawkeye felt a stab of guilt at that – he'd entertained that same thought himself in his darker moments. "Oh, she did, huh?"

Another frown, another kick. "I didn't stand for that. I told her straight: _I'd_ made the first move on ya, an' that I ain't about to go pickin' up strange guys in bars just like that, an' that… you were somethin' special."

Hawkeye beamed, although he tried not to. "You said that? To your _wife_?"

Trapper shuffled his feet, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "An' I told her… told her I was in love with you."

"Huh," was all Hawkeye could say. He looked away, almost embarrassed. His insides were doing something quite peculiar and his head felt a little fuzzy. "I'm always the last to know," he quipped weakly, gripping the railing a little harder. He could tell his face was flushing.

Trapper sidled closer, resting his elbows on the aging wood and looking out over the Cove. "Louise didn't like that one bit. She said two men _couldn't_ love each other – that it was nothin' but a perversion an' I was sick an' needed help."

Hawkeye grimaced. "And may I ask which medical school the esteemed Doctor McIntyre-brackets-Mrs attended in order to qualify for diagnostics?"

Trapper managed a soft chuckle, and looked anxiously at Hawkeye through the corner of his eye. "I could'a used you on my side in that conversation."

"I don't do house calls. Mostly on account of my being fired." Hawkeye resisted the urge to move closer, and stared at the wall instead of meeting that earnest, appealing gaze.

Trapper continued to watch him, trying to put his thoughts into words that Hawkeye might understand. "I wrote you letters, you know. Thought about you so much I… had to do somethin'. An then I realised I didn't know your address, so I hid 'em." He frowned, worrying at his lip. "Louise found 'em. That was what did it. She said I was obsessed or somethin' – that you'd done somethin' to my mind. Told me I was a lost cause, an' that I if wasn't gonna get help, I had to get out, because she'd rather go through life a divorcee than have a faggot for a husband."

Hawkeye saw Trapper flinch even as he spoke the words, and he had to close his eyes to the expression on his face. Before he could stop himself, he slid off the railing, reached out and clutched his hand. "There's nothing wrong with you, Trapper. You know that."

"Ain't there?" There were tears in his eyes as Trapper turned to face him. "Then how come I feel like I'm bein' _punished_? I _tried_ to do the right thing, tried to fix my marriage like you're s'posed to, but it busted up anyways! An' I hurt you an' I've scared the hell outta my kids…" He closed his eyes and hid his face for a moment. "If that was the right thing to do, it sure doesn't feel like it."

Watching him, Hawkeye couldn't help but feel moved by the pain radiating off the man beside him. Gentle, he raised a hand and laid it on Trapper's back, feeling the rise and fall of his body as he breathed through his grief. "You did the right thing, Trap." He didn't even know he'd thought that until he heard himself say the words. And, somehow, it was as if by saying them he'd let some of that resentment go. It felt… good. Cleansing.

Trapper lifted his gaze and looked up at him. So close now, Hawkeye's hand on his back, their faces inches apart. "I don't know anymore, Hawk. It feels like I'm messed up in the head! Maybe I should'a gone to a doctor like she said!"

Hawkeye shuddered. "Don't even go there, Trap. Those hospitals…"

"I ain't been able to stop thinkin' about you! Even when I was tryin' to fix things with Louise!" Trapper's voice was a frantic, pained whisper, almost lost in the coasta breeze.

"It's only been a month! If things had been better at home…"

"Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye realised only at the last second that Trapper was about to kiss him. "No!" The protest escaped him before he could even think and he twisted away and out of his embrace, putting some distance between them. "Stop it! I'm not here for you to play games with! Just _stop_!"

Trapper looked genuinely shocked. "What does this look like to you? Mah-Jongg?"

"You don't get to do this to me again! You don't get to come sailing up here with your puppy-dog eyes and your lips and your sob stories and just… pick up where you left off! I'm _not_ your consolation prize in the game of heterosexual charades!"

"Who said anythin' about a consolation prize? I told you I _loved_ ya, didn't I?"

" _No_! You told your _wife_ that you loved me! _After_ you left me and went back to her! And when _that_ didn't work out, you decided to try your luck with me again. I'd be flattered, only you're not flattering me! You're _settling_ , Trapper – that's all this is. You don't want to be with me – you're just out of options! Your marriage broke down and now you're rebounding on me!"

Trapper shook his head. "Bullshit."

Hawkeye was actually quite taken aback. "An articulate and compelling argument, Doctor McIntyre, but I'm afraid you're going to have to boil it down a little for the simple country doctor in the lecture hall."

Leaning on the porch railing, Trapper fought to put his thoughts into sentences. "Look, Hawk. I ain't so good with words, but I'll try an' explain this as best I can: I don't love Louise. Not sure when I stopped – could'a been Korea, could'a been sometime before, could even be that I never really did – but I don't feel _anythin'_ when I look at her. But I still had to give it a shot. I don't expect you to understand this, but a marriage ain't somethin' you just give up on – even when you're standin' in front of somebody else so goddamn special it _kills you_ to walk away. She's the mother of my children! I had to _try_. Don't you see that?"

" _Yes_! I get it! I understand! You're a married man! You're a father! It was _stupid_ of me to ever think I had a chance with you!" Hawkeye gestured dramatically into the night.

"It _ain't_ stupid! I went back because I had to try an' do the right thing! But I didn't go back for _her_ ; I went back for _them_ – for Kathy an' Becky _._ But it wasn't Louise who I've missed sleepin' next to these past few weeks – it was _you_. _You_ were the one I wrote to every damned day when she was makin' my life hell! _You_ were the one I thought about when I couldn't sleep at night. An' when she finally threw me out… part o' me was _glad_ she'd made the call, 'cause I was just too damned proud to come after ya until then." He moved closer and took Hawkeye's hands in his own, elated when he met no resistance. "So here I am – I've screwed up my marriage, I might never see my kids again, an'… an' I sure as hell ain't gonna be practisin' medicine any time soon, but I guess sometimes you gotta lose everythin' 'fore you realise just what you got. I ain't askin' ya to make any long term decisions now, or to… commit to anythin' – I ain't about to put you on the spot like that – I'm just askin' for a second chance. I'm sorry I hurt you, I really am, an' I'm not gonna lie: my kids'll always come first. But God help me, Hawkeye, you're still a pretty close second!"

Hawkeye sniffed. "I'm not a father. I don't understand these things."

"I don't expect you to… but I can tell ya straight, second place is one heck of a compliment. You _know_ how much I love my girls!"

Hawkeye sighed, overwhelmed by the immensity of Trapper's confession. "I do…" He let himself be drawn closer, and didn't pull away when Trapper pressed a light, chaste kiss to his forehead, protective and comforting. Trapper's presence was like a soothing balm to his healing heart. For the past month he'd thought about nothing else, despite his best efforts not to. He wanted nothing more to wrap his arms around Trapper and never let go! "Thought about you, too," he muttered, his head still bowed.

"I'm glad." The tiniest hint of a familiar lop-sided grin crept onto Trapper's face. "An' I am sorry. An' I still understand if, after all this, you told me to get my ass to a motel an' never come back."

Hawkeye looked up at him, into those whiskey eyes he'd missed so much he'd practically tried to climb into a bottle to cope. He stared down at their joined hands, his thumbs running in soft circles over Trapper's skin. "You've suffered enough," he said gently. "We both have." He gave Trapper's hand one last squeeze, and headed back towards the front door before he could be drawn too swiftly into any more physical reconciliations. "I'll ask my dad if you can stay awhile."

Trapper couldn't help but smile. "You're an _angel_. Hawk. What are you gonna tell him?"

"The _truth_ , obviously."

The smile vanished. "The _truth_? Hawkeye, are you nuts?" He grabbed Hawkeye's arm, hissing in frantic whispers. "I already got thrown outta one home for bein' a queer! I ain't about to make it two, an' I'm _not_ gonna see you wreck your relationship with your dad for me!"

Swatting at him, Hawkeye wriggled free, smoothing out his sleeve. "Would you relax? I _told_ him already!"

"You _told_ him?!"

"He found my discharge papers – I _had_ to!"

Trapper's head was swimming in this deluge of unthinkable information. "So… you think he knows who I am?"

"Trapper! You turned up on my porch practically wearing a sign over your head that said 'jilted former lover – please treat with forgiveness and fabric softener'. He was about ready to leap up to defend my honour – a little late, of course."

Still, Trapper continued to stare at him like a rabbit in headlights. At last, his expression softened. "'Lover…?' You ain't never called me that…"

"I'll start right now if you'll just shut your yap and come inside."

"I don't know about this, Hawk…"

"Do you _want_ a place to stay tonight or not?" Trapper just stood there mutely – it was either this or another bench. Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "Get your bag, 'lover'. Check-in closes at eleven."

* * *

Daniel had busied himself in the kitchen as best he could. Through the window he could see the younger men talking, but he tried not to invade their privacy. Occasionally he could hear Hawkeye's raised voice through the walls, and it made him bristle to hear him so agitated. But he was quiet again before long.

It was strange, the defensiveness that had arisen at the sight of Trapper standing on the doorstep. He had to admit, he was none too thrilled at the idea of Hawkeye becoming anybody's 'bit on the side', nor did he want to think of his son as a homewrecker. He'd warned Hawkeye off married women from an early age, and he wondered now if perhaps he should have been a little broader in his lessons. But he had to admit, he didn't know the full story behind this… 'Trapper' character. Perhaps he didn't care to? He wasn't sure. If he was to become something of a permanent fixture, then perhaps he would have little choice in the matter. But even as he stood at the sink with his hands buried in suds and agonised over his son's predicament, he knew it was Hawkeye's call.

It was so strange – he'd been navigating this aspect of parenting by some kind of pre-set 'painting by numbers' guide. He'd advised Hawkeye on his relationships with girls according to what was deemed to be the proper way of dealing with these things. Now, he was outside the rule book, flying without a map. The rules no longer applied, no matter which way he tried to twist them. Would he feel so intensely protective if it had been a married woman standing on his doorstep, requesting tearfully to speak with his son? Would he have allowed Trapper onto the grounds of his house had Hawkeye been his daughter? Everything society had given him to follow now seemed pointless, and so utterly arbitrary in the light of this new facet to his son's personal life, and Daniel felt there was no other way than to follow his son's lead, and, in the meantime, try and get to know this person as best he could.

The sound of the front door slamming signified Hawkeye's return, and he emerged from the hall into the kitchen. He was alone – at least for now.

"So," Daniel announced with a little more joviality than he felt. "What's the situation?"

Hawkeye swallowed, and hesitated before speaking. "Uh… we talked," he said simply. "And I was wondering… can Trapper stay for a few days?" He had the same tone he used to have as a boy when he used to ask if his friends could stay for supper.

Daniel looked over at Trapper, who was now lingering in the dining room with his suitcase, looking anywhere but at Daniel.

"Of course," Daniel replied, feeling a little more apprehension in his tone than his words dared to let on. He rested his hands on his son's shoulders. "He can stay as long as _you_ want him here. Understand?"

"Got it." Hawkeye understood perfectly.

Both of them seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the same time. Trapper continued to loiter, looking a little lost.

Giving Hawkeye a nudge, Daniel prompted him: "You know where the linens are. Go get the spare bed made up."

Hawkeye hesitated, as if unsure of leaving them alone, but then… if Trapper was to stay, that would be inevitable eventually. His eyes darted between the pair of them, but, at last, he left without a word. Trapper's gaze followed him out of the door.

"He's a lousy host." Daniel nodded to his son as he vanished up the stairs.

Trapper forced himself to laugh. When he'd exhausted that, he forced himself to make conversation. "Thanks for… putting me up, Doctor Pierce."

"Don't thank me – it's his house too. If he says you can stay, then you can stay."

"Right."

A long, agonising silence stretched out, and Trapper began to wish he'd followed Hawkeye upstairs. Or would that have been worse? Would the elder Pierce have dragged him back down by his ear and ordered him to keep his hands off his son? Trapper didn't know what to expect.

"Things didn't work out with your wife, then?"

Trapper recoiled. It almost felt like too personal a question to answer, and yet… he figured it was to be expected. Of _course_ Hawkeye's father was suspicious of him. "No, sir."

And Daniel nodded. No further information was offered, so he pressed on. "Seems an awful long way to go, Boston to Maine. Don't you have any friends in your hometown you could've stayed with? Maybe given Hawkeye a call instead of turning up here as soon as things got rough at home?"

Trapper really didn't want to go into details. He didn't feel like confiding in a relative stranger that even his own parents were now convinced he was a degenerate and a subversive, a traitor to the American way of life, and that everyone from his former work thought the same. He could have taken some of his savings and put himself up in a motel for a few days, but… "It all happened kinda fast. I just wanted to see him, y'know…"

Daniel continued to regard him a little suspiciously. "He was hurt after you left. I've only ever seen him heartbroken once before, and it damned near killed me. I don't like seeing my son upset."

Trapper nodded. "I ain't plannin' on hurtin' Hawkeye no more. I give you my word."

Daniel drew closer, his hands clasped behind his back. "Well, I hope so, because he's the only son I've got. Now, I like to think my Hawkeye is a good judge of character, and I wouldn't ever want to come between him and someone he cares about, so this is all I'll say on the matter. But I think you should know that if I find out that you're… toying with him, or that you're just stringing him along to get some place to rest your head for a few weeks, then I'll kick your butt all the way back to Massachusetts." And then, his point made, Daniel softened, and held out his hand. "But I really hope that's not the case. It's nice to meet you, Doctor."

Trapper wasn't sure what to say, so instead of saying anything he shook Daniel's hand mutely and gave him a weak smile.

"Trapper!" It was Hawkeye's voice that rung out from the upper floor mercifully breaking the silence. "You've got a bed! You want to bring your stuff up?"

Daniel smiled, releasing Trapper's hand. "Go on. Make yourself at home."

"Thank you, sir." And so, without a moment's hesitation, Trapper took his leave, hauling his suitcase with him as he ventured up the ancient wooden staircase to the top floor of Hawkeye's childhood home.

The upstairs hallway was small and cramped with a low ceiling. Like the downstairs, it was old-fashioned and in need of a lick of paint, but the walls were adorned with a dozen family photographs, giving it a homely feel. It was nice, but Trapper couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was an outsider here.

He found Hawkeye standing in the doorway of a little box room at the front of the house, grinning. "I did hospital corners and everything, just to make you feel at home!" He grinned as Trapper hauled his suitcase towards his new room. "Sorry, it's kind of pokey. This used to be part of the master bedroom, but my folks put up a partition wall." He knocked on the wall and it gave a hollow sound. "My dad's study is through there, and this used to be the nursery."

Trapper had to admit, he didn't feel remotely 'at home', hospital corners or no. The room was almost claustrophobically small. One wall was occupied entirely by closet space, with vast white wooden doors spanning from floor to ceiling. The opposite side was filled by the bed – a tiny, ancient-looking wooden affair with a high, solid headboard and a musty yellow bedspread. There was a threadbare rug underfoot, a lamp with a worrying burn mark on the shade, and a small collection of soft toys on the window ledge.

He shouldn't be disappointed. He hadn't really expected to be allowed to share a bed with Hawkeye, but this place had an odd feeling to it.

He zoned in on the one aspect of it that gave it some life – the stuffed toys – and plucked on from the collection, smiling. "Yours?" he asked playfully, tapping Hawkeye on the nose with the little rabbit.

"Uh, no. My sister's."

"I didn't know you had a…"

"I don't. She died."

"Oh."

"Less than two years old. Pneumonia." Hawkeye leaned across the bed and pointed to a montage style photograph frame. "That's her."

Trapper squinted at the tiny photograph. It was a miniature preview from one of those photography places in the back of a drug store, or similar. Presumably the larger print had pride of place in another frame somewhere, but in this smaller version, he could just recognise a young boy, who was unmistakeably Hawkeye with his expressive eyes and cheeky grin, clutching a tiny infant wrapped in a blanket.

Hawkeye took the rabbit from Trapper's hands, cradling it gently. "I don't remember her much," he admitted, sadly. "I wish I did. Dad says I took it pretty badly. The only way he could console me was to explain about the disease and why she got sick. He thinks she was the reason I became a doctor."

Trapper watched as Hawkeye turned the rabbit over and over in his hands, and was suddenly filled with love for the man in a way he'd never experienced before. "There's a lot I don't know about you," he said aloud, not even really intending to.

"Yeah?" Hawkeye tucked the soft toy into the bed to keep Trapper company. "Stick around for a while, and you just might learn some more."

"I intend to." Trapper smiled one of his biggest, warmest grins, and wrapped his arms around Hawkeye, so grateful to have been allowed back into his life. Hawkeye made no attempt to pull away, and that made Trapper all the more joyous. He pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then to his lips, and then leaned in for another, pulling him closer, and…

"That's enough, Romeo."

His tone was light, but Trapper released him immediately, a hurt frown on his face. "Oh, it's like that, is it?"

"Hey!" Hawkeye gripped his lapels and held him close. "It's nothing personal. It's just… this is my dad's house."

"I thought you said he was okay with it."

"He _is_! But there's a big difference between him… being okay with me being a little left-of-heterosexual and being okay with you and me going at it like a couple of rabid mongooses under his hundred-year-old roof!"

"I ain't plannin' on mongoosin' anybody." Trapper shot him a smile. "I just… I like kissin' ya, is all."

He went to kiss him again, but Hawkeye stopped him after a brief peck on the lips. "Enough."

"Spoil-sport…" A familiar roguish grin appeared on Trapper's face. "Where's your room anyway?"

"Across the hall. _But_ no sneaking across in the middle of the night looking for some action!"

Trapper pouted. "What if I get scared? First night in a strange house…"

A playful smile quirked around the corners of Hawkeye's lips. "I'll get you a night light!"

"All on my lonesome… "

"Cuddle your rabbit."

"What if…" Trapper glanced at his fluffy friend on the bed and took Hawkeye's hands in his own again, smiling that lop-sided smile of his. "… I miss ya?"

Hawkeye rolled his eyes and gave Trapper a quick peck on the lips. "Terminal lovesickness? Get a good night's sleep and kiss me in the morning."

Trapper smiled, and pulled him into one last goodnight hug, Hawkeye's head resting on his shoulder. They held one another for the longest time, surrounded by the watchful eyes of half a dozen stuffed toy animals, and a montage of Hawkeye's childhood memories.

This place wasn't so bad, Trapper decided, as he swayed contentedly with Hawkeye in his arms. Suddenly, the exhaustion that he had kept at bay since he had awoken on a cold bench in a bus station at the start of rush hour that morning made its presence known. His limbs and eyelids began to feel heavy.

Hawkeye shifted in his embrace, but didn't pull away just yet. "Hey," he said softly, his head lifting a little from Trapper's shoulder. "Look. The rain's stopped."

Trapper didn't look. He didn't even turn his head. His fingers gently caressed the nape of Hawkeye's neck, and he buried his nose in his hair, breathing in his scent. "Yeah," he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Yeah, it has."

* * *

 _A very lengthy instalment tonight as I couldn't find a suitable chapter break! Continues next week..._


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's note:**_ _I went on holiday to Maine last summer, largely the coastal regions around Penobscot Bay. While Crabapple Cove does not exist, we did drive past a 'Crabapple Creek' and 'Crabapple Drive' in a town called Bremen, where Richard Hooker used to live. My depictions of the Cove are based mostly on my experiences on this road trip, and on descriptions by a friend who lives in New England._

* * *

 **Crabapple Cove, Maine – November, 1951**

The next couple of weeks were… odd, to say the least. Never had Trapper known such a bizarre combination of domestic bliss and tense formality.

Here, he got to see Hawkeye in his own home, at his most relaxed, and, he had to admit, he fell in love with him all over again. He'd never known the kind of joy that came with the discovery of all those silly little habits: the way Hawkeye would wince and whine when his boiled egg was too hot to get into without burning his fingers, and would sulk until it cooled down; the child-like glee that radiated from him every time his favourite show was on the radio or TV; the way he seemed incapable (or unwilling) to dress with anything resembling co-ordination and would emerge from his bedroom in the most peculiar combinations of colours and fabrics. His shirts came in a variety of stripes and plaids, and all a garish array of salmon pink, aquamarine blue, hunter green and lemon yellow, and he seemed to own a surprisingly vast range of golfing apparel for someone who wasn't even a member of a golfing club.

"I used to be!" Hawkeye had explained, emerging from his bedroom in another revolting argyle sweater. "They just… asked me politely to leave on account of my getting drunk and driving a golf cart into the lake."

Hawkeye's bedroom, of course, became the source of all fascination to Trapper. Not necessarily for the purposes of debauchery, but simply because it was _his_. He was allowed in occasionally, normally to help with chores, and he couldn't resist examining the little childhood knickknacks that still cluttered up the place. The worn teddy bear under the desk; the battered dollhouse in the corner; the faded bedspread with its embroidered sailboats, some clearly stitched by an adult, expert hand and others obviously the work of a creative but unskilled child. Trapper ran his fingers over those messy stitches, remembering how he had admired Hawkeye's perfect sutures in the O.R., and pondered with a smile over the thought of tiny Hawkeye making his first hesitant stitches with red thread on blue cotton. As he stood here, he felt he was taking a step closer to Hawkeye – not just as he was today, but _everything_ that made him as a person, and everything he _had_ been. Never in his life had he wanted to know everything there was to know about another human being. It was that curiosity, and that alone, that made their isolation bearable.

He'd never had this with Louise. Their courtship had been brief, their marriage rushed. Before he knew it, he'd found himself standing at family gatherings with a nervous smile on his face and a squirming baby in his arms: Rebecca Louise Joanna McIntyre had born 'premature' – and at nine pounds three ounces. There had been no time for Trapper to get to know his wife-to-be. There wasn't even time for him to _want_ to. Love became a necessity – the glue that was required to hold their young family together. It was there, but it was squeezed out of him like sweat as he'd toiled through extra shifts in his residency to help cover their bills, or when the pair of them paced the apartment late into the night as Becky cried and bellowed her way through another bout of colic. There had been no time to relish those early days. He'd dried up all too soon.

Hawkeye was worlds apart from all that. There was no purposeful mystery here – no allure designed and upheld to seduce him or keep him interested. These days, with his rules against any raunchy behaviour still in place, Hawkeye was putting considerable effort into being as unalluring as possible, but the unpolished honesty of him just made Trapper adore him more. They would bump into one another in the hallway each morning, Trapper in his pyjamas and Hawkeye in yesterday's underwear, with stains down his shirt and his hair sticking up. And he would yawn and scratch himself and rub at his sleepy eyes with his bony knuckles, seeming to forget momentarily that he had company. And Trapper's heart would swell with affection, and he'd brush past and give him a morning kiss and a hug before they had to join Daniel downstairs, and the barriers would go up once again.

It made sense in a way, Trapper thought, that he should find Hawkeye's openness so endearing. This was how they had grown so close to start with. He'd seen Hawkeye stark naked months before they had even kissed. He'd seen him hung over and puking his guts up outside the Swamp because he didn't make it to the latrine. He'd seen him streaked with tears and snot, crying his eyes out because, after the first three weeks in Korea, he could finally admit that he was scared; that he missed his dad and his home and his own bed. Trapper had given him a bottle of gin and a handkerchief – in that order – and the next day they built the still together. Hawkeye held nothing back – not after that – and now they were back in those early days, getting to know one another's habits and quirks. Trapper felt, at times, like he knew him utterly, and yet at others, he felt like he could never know enough.

He missed him at night. His presence in that room just at the other end of the hall seemed to call to him, but he resisted the urge to break the rules and creep across the landing. It wasn't even the sex that he missed – it was the comforting familiarity of sleeping a few feet away from someone and listening to them breathe and sigh and dream. With so much of Trapper's life in upheaval, such a presence might have been a comfort – lord knows, he needed it. He'd slept alongside Hawkeye for almost a year – now, the silence was unbearable.

More unbearable still was the way Hawkeye would recoil from his touch sometimes. Trapper understood: he was uneasy with the idea of being intimate in his childhood home, and disinclined to rush their tentative reconciliation Trapper longed to just be able to hold him without the fear of being pushed away. He tried not to take it personally but he missed the physical affection: the footrubs, the lengthy kissing sessions, the way they would take it in turns to style one another's hair. Hawkeye had been more daring in Korea! Here, he was jumpy and paranoid, barely relaxing for long enough for Trapper to wrap his arms around him for more than a few seconds.

Then, there was the presence of Doctor Pierce Senior, a figure who Trapper could not quite regard with anything other than intimidated respect. After his initial warning, Daniel had been nothing but kind and amicable to him, and yet Trapper felt like there was an aura of disapproval following him around the house. It didn't help that Hawkeye, too, would flinch every time Trapper's hand grazed his own, even by accident, in his father's presence, and would leap away when he entered the room, as if they were sitting or standing a little too close. Trapper began to wonder just how far the older man's acceptance went, and if maybe Hawkeye knew something he didn't. They tip-toed around him, hiding every visible hint of their intimacy. Their relationship was the elephant in the room, and they hid it away beneath a veil of platonic indifference, never talking about it, just as they hid themselves from the rest of the world, and Daniel in turn declined to comment on his son's relationship with their lodger.

But all that was about to change.

* * *

"I've had just about enough of this!"

Trapper awoke feeling like he'd just had a thousand volts shot through him. The first thing he noticed was that it was dark, and cold. They'd fallen asleep with the living room curtains closed and the fire still roaring, but now the embers weren't even glowing and their cosy hideaway was not so cosy.

The second thing he noticed was that he was wrapped around Hawkeye having nodded off together while watching TV, gravitating towards one another for warmth as they'd slept, and the whole thing probably looked far more intimate than it had been.

The two of them shot apart like they'd been caught necking in the back seat at the movies, and Trapper had visions of spending another night at a bus station – only this time with Hawkeye asleep on the bench next to him. Hawkeye's expression looked like he'd had the same image as he scrambled to his feet and bundled the blanket up, mumbling both apologies and excuses.

"You two are unbelievable!" Daniel grumbled to himself as he hit the off switch on the TV.

Trapper cringed.

Hawkeye ducked his head at his father's admonishment. He thought they'd been as discreet and respectful as they could. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise to me. Apologise to _him_." Daniel pointed to Trapper, who stared at him in utter confusion. Hawkeye joined him, and Daniel rolled his eyes and looked heavenward. "The pair of you are locking yourselves away like you're criminals on the run! Even if you're not going to help me out at the clinic, either one of you, you could at least leave the _house_ sometime!"

The pair exchanged looks, thrown by the direction this conversation had taken. Daniel sighed.

"Look, I know you're worried about the neighbours, but for God's sake, get out there! You're in the most beautiful state in the country, and at the best time of year. Stop hiding! I had four weeks of _you_ moping about the place before he got here, so now go show the boy the scenery! I realise you're worried about your future, but that's no reason not to enjoy the present."

"But, Dad…"

"I won't hear it! There's a fine line between caution and paranoia, and you've gone _way_ over. One trip to the beach isn't about to set tongues wagging."

"Yeah, but… you see, you know Mrs Everett across the street? She…"

"I don't give a damn about Mrs Everett or anyone else!" Trapper blinked at that – his own parents never swore. "We're going out, and we're having a nice evening! Got it?"

All further arguments were forgotten. They extricated themselves from the couch and trudged to their rooms to get dressed and shod. Daniel's words echoed in Trapper's mind. One word in particular: 'future', singular. Was that what he had with Hawkeye? Daniel Pierce was using language synonymous with married couples. Was that how he saw them? Was that what this was in his eyes?

Pulling his shoes on, Trapper tried to get his head around it. He'd gone from being locked away in his own home to being ordered to stop hiding in someone else's. Life was strange.

Hawkeye met him on the landing, emerging from his room wearing a purple plaid shirt and scruffy cords. He was running his hands through his hair in an effort to smooth it, and failing miserably. It was still strange to see one another in civvies, and Trapper had, by now, concluded that Hawkeye had no sense of style whatsoever. He caught his eye with a small smile, and Hawkeye approached him, reaching out to brush his lapels.

"You always wear a suit to the beach?"

Trapper smirked. "Hey, you saw the bag I arrived with! I ain't exactly packed for all kinds of weather here!" He glanced down at Hawkeye's bright yellow wellingtons. "Is there some local custom that says ya have to dress like the fishermen?"

"Genealogically speaking, we're _all_ fishermen here!"

"Oh?" Trapper quirked an eyebrow as he snuck a sly hug in the darkness of the landing. "Genealogically speakin'? Right. Guess I better go get my kilt."

"Not around here you won't – unless you're willing to put up with one heck of a cold gust up your nethers. You sure you don't want to borrow something warmer?"

Trapper gave Hawkeye's tiny waist a squeeze. "Are you kiddin'? I'd bust out at the seams."

"Not mine – I mean my dad could lend you…"

"No way, Hawk. I already feel bad enough invadin' his house. I ain't about to start goin' through his wardrobe. Come on – let's mush. I don't wanna keep your old man waitin'."

"Right. Yes. Pop's orders – we're having a nice day out, whether we like it or not." Hawkeye gave him a peck on the cheek and reluctantly slid out of his arms. Trapper was surprised to find himself trembling, although whether it was from fear or excitement was anybody's guess.

* * *

They pulled up next to an empty beach: wide and flat, with its dark sands peppered with rocks and grasses. As they got out, the sharp chill of the air hit Trapper in the face, and a few flakes of snow were beginning to fall in the chill of the evening. "You gotta be kiddin'…"

Daniel Pierce, wrapped up in overcoat, hat, and boots just like his son's, responded with little sympathy. "Come on, city boy! You won't get there any faster by standing there shivering."

"Get where?"

"Not sure yet. I'll decide when we get there."

Hawkeye, meanwhile, seemed unperturbed by his father's peculiar approach to planning, and was already vaulting the weathered old fence that stood between them and the coast. Trapper had no choice but to follow.

They struck out across the sand. Trapper's shoes were soon filthy, and the damp was starting to creep in. He held his thin coat around himself as the wind and sleet ripped past him. Sand blew into his face and he had to keep turning away and closing his eyes. Daniel was getting further and further into the distance, and although Hawkeye kept coming back for him, laughing and joking, Trapper felt like the slow kid in the relay and, after a while, mumbled to him, "Don't worry about me – I'll catch up." Hawkeye stopped coming back – or at least pretended to. Instead he would become 'distracted' by bits of debris in the sand, and would pause to prod at things, or stare into rock pools until Trapper caught up, and then he would act 'surprised' that he'd been standing there for so long.

After some time, the sand gave way to an expanse of rocks. Daniel strode across them effortlessly, hands shoved in pockets. Hawkeye seemed to do some sort of dance, leaping across them theatrically, which Trapper figured was about one half trying to keep his balance and one half showing off.

Trapper… did neither. His athletic talents lay in football and boxing, and this was not his forte. He traversed the rocks with difficulty. Each step was a military exercise. Flat surfaces were nowhere to be seen, and the nearest things approximating them had taken it upon themselves to cultivate a rich carpet of seaweed, thus granting them all the traction of an ice rink. Trapper slipped. His hand went down and sank into the mud, his foot ankle-deep in water. "Oh, Goddamn it!"

He extracted himself and tried to wipe the sand off in a nearby rock pool, only to wind up incurring the wrath of a startled crab.

By the time he'd cleaned up and nursed his finger, he was met with the sight of Hawkeye standing a little while up ahead, laughing his ass off as he perched precariously on a rock that mountain goats would have struggled to traverse.

Trapper scowled. "Jackass!"

"Ah, I bet you regret making fun of my footwear _now_!" Hawkeye wiggled his toes in his yellow wellingtons.

"I didn't know there was mountaineerin' involved in this trip!" Grumbling, Trapper continued on his perilous journey – and Hawkeye waited.

"It's not so hard when you're used to it. I grew up here – smashed one of my baby teeth on these rocks. It's probably still floating around out there somewhere." Hawkeye gestured out to the cove. "Come on – I'll help you." He took Trapper's hands and began to lead him, instructing him where to put his feet. A few times, he fell, but Hawkeye caught him, and, on one occasion, fell down with him. But they helped each other up and soldiered on.

They both reached the other side of the outcrop covered in sand and mud, clinging to one another. They didn't let go, even as they re-joined Daniel at the edge of the beach, where the sand rose into a grassy bank. By this time, Trapper was laughing too, and Hawkeye was in hysterics.

"I was beginning to give up hope," Daniel quipped. "Figured you'd been eaten by seagulls."

"Trapper fell in the mud."

Daniel eyed his son's muddy clothes. "Seems to me he wasn't the only one."

"Oh, I didn't fall – I was dragged in. Purposefully and maliciously!"

Chuckling, Daniel led the way up the embankment to the path. Hawkeye bounded up after him, then came back and dragged Trapper up by the hand.

Up on the hill, they could see the rest of the Cove stretching out, curving around the ocean as if the land itself were embracing it. Buildings nestled in the trees on the hillside. It was as if nature itself had taken it upon itself to shelter the inhabitants of this little town.

There was nobody out here by the ocean at this time of day on a harsh, Fall evening, and there were scarce few buildings at this end of town. The path they were on led up to a little wooden footbridge that looked about as sturdy as the rickety fence they had clambered over to get to the beach. It bridged the gap between the mainland and a tiny little island only a few yards away – you could probably walk to it at low tide – upon which sat a lighthouse, two small cottages, and what looked like a large shack with a deck bolted onto the side of it.

"Barney's," Daniel announced, pointing across the bridge. "We'll go there."

Trapper had to assume that the shack-like building was some sort of eatery, but there was no signage to suggest this. Either that or 'Barney' was the owner of one of the houses and they were going to pay him a visit. He paused for a moment, surveying the scenery again. It really was quite beautiful here, especially at this time of year. He followed the line of the coast around, impressed at the distance they had covered, all the way to Daniel's little blue pickup truck, glinting in the distance.

"Hey, wait a minute," Trapper called up the path.

Daniel paused. "What's the matter, sonny? Don't you like sea food?"

Trapper examined the lie of the land. "This path goes right up to the street, and there's parking right up there by the harbour. So how come we didn't _drive_ round here?"

Smiling, Daniel stepped a little closer. "Because," he explained conspiratorially, "it's not the destination that's important."

With those words, he set off along the bridge. Hawkeye gave Trapper's hand a tug, and in doing so, realised he'd been holding it the entire time.

* * *

Barney's was little more than a large wooden cottage perched on the side of a tiny speck of land poking out of the Atlantic, but the food was great. Even with the windows closed, they could still hear the sea hitting the rocks below them. It was off-season, but Barney was happy to serve locals all year round, and welcomed them into his home/business. Daniel ordered lobster for everyone, and Hawkeye instructed Trapper on how to eat it. The cutlery looked more like surgical instruments, and when he declined to wear the cotton bib he was presented with (because he felt stupid) Hawkeye shook his head at him. "No no no. Wear the bib, Trap. Trust me."

Daniel chuckled. "How _anybody_ can live their entire life in New England and _not_ have eaten lobster is beyond me!"

Trapper bristled slightly, but he knew Daniel meant well. Growing up in the Boston slums, lobster had usually been out of his family's price range, and even once he'd made it to college, he hadn't wanted to embarrass himself by ordering something armour plated and then losing the battle to eat it.

Getting into his food was like surgery, too. Trapper hacked and sawed his way through and eventually struck fish. It was almost grotesque, if it didn't smell so delicious. Inside, he found steaming white meat, and some strange, grey liquid gunk that looked like the innards.

"I don't eat the grey stuff, do I?" he asked, pointing at it with the two-pronged fork he'd been using to poke bits of meat out of the claws.

Daniel shrugged. "Try it. If you don't like it, don't eat it."

Trapper looked hesitant. Hawkeye leaned over the table towards him. "Don't listen to him. He played the same trick on my prom date at homecoming when I was seventeen. She threw up on my tux and never went out with me again."

Trapper laughed, and left the grey stuff. Across the table, Daniel chuckled into his napkin.

* * *

They were the only customers on this chilly Wednesday evening, and as such Barney didn't seem to mind them making themselves at home. After desserts, Daniel went to sleep in front of the fire, a glass of Scotch nestled in his hand and threatening to tip onto the carpet. Trapper had one too, and watched as Hawkeye made a fuss of Barney's dog. The large, black spaniel growled playfully as Hawkeye scratched at its ears, and Trapper watched in silent amusement as Hawkeye played with the dog and chatted away to Barney. It felt strange to be out in Hawkeye's home town, where he knew every inch of the place, as well as most of the people.

He'd been introduced as Hawkeye's 'war buddy' who he'd met in Korea, a white lie that was about 50% truth, and didn't quite sit right with Trapper. He wasn't sure which half was making him nervous, so he settled for both and took his whiskey out onto the deck for some air.

His shoes were still drying next to the fire after his brush with the rock pools, stuffed with newspaper and being guarded by the sleeping Doctor Pierce in case the dog decided to turn one into a chew toy. Trapper padded out in his socks, feeling the wooden boards against the soles of his feet with every step. It was an odd sensation.

The wood was old but sturdy, and jutted out over the cliffs like a miniature boardwalk. Trapper watched the sea move beneath him through the cracks between the planks, the waves breaking away into meandering lines of foam, then leaned on the railing to watch the night sky. Looking east, it was not so much the sunset as the slow ascent of darkness. Already the glow of twilight was giving way to a deeper shade of blue, peppered with stars, as the sun sank slowly into the vast continent behind him.

The day had been pleasant. Not in the way Trapper was used to, but in a new, exciting way. Was this the life he was signing up for with Hawkeye? Scrambling across rock pools and dissecting lobsters? Smiling and nodding to strangers who were Hawkeye's oldest friends, knowing they could never really let on what they were to one another? Could he handle that?

And even if they didn't stay here, would life elsewhere be much different? Everything was still unknown. Terrifying. _Dangerous._ Was the judgement of strangers any better than that of old neighbours? They wouldn't be able to keep their secret forever. Trapper knew only too well that wherever you are, however careful you may be, the truth will come out. Could he handle that? He hoped so. He'd already lost his wife and his career… possibly his children, too – a lump rose in his throat at the mere thought of Kathy and Becky so many miles away, being told lord-knows-what by their mother – and to lose Hawkeye as well would destroy him. He had no choice but to face the world.

The future stretched out before him like the open Atlantic, vast and unknown and unpredictable, shrouded in darkness.

He felt a nudge at his elbow, and without turning his head, he smiled. "Heya, Hawk."

Hawkeye shuffled closer, shivering. "What are we looking at?"

"Nothin'."

"Ah, we do a good line in nothing out here. Like nothing you're ever seen."

They continued to look. Trapper sipped his whiskey.

"Y'know," Trapper mumbled into the encroaching night. "I've known ya over a year now. By the time I'd known Louise that long, we'd had a baby."

Hawkeye nodded. "I promise I'm not pregnant. I'd tell you if I was."

"I ain't ever done this before."

"Well, if it's any consolation, you did really well." The smirk around Hawkeye's lips gave the game away before he got to the punchline. "The claws are the hard part."

"Not the lobster, ya knucklehead." Grinning, Trapper sipped his Scotch. "I mean… this romance thing."

"Oh, is _that_ what you think this is? We'd better ditch my dad if that's the case."

"You know what I mean." Another sip. Another moment's thought. "I ain't ever taken the time to get to know somebody before. Can't say I ever cared to 'til now. An' with Louise… Well, I never got the chance."

There was an awkward silence. A wave hit the rocks below.

"I wore a yellow tie at our weddin' – Louise hates yellow."

Hawkeye shuddered slightly, uneasy when the topic of Trapper's wife came up. "Is there a reason you're telling me this?"

"I just want you to know where I'm comin' from here. My marriage was…" He paused, took a breath. "I got her in trouble." Even now, he whispered the words. His regret at the time had been purely selfish, but now his failure to stick to the vow he had made in haste seemed to heap more guilt upon him than that initial impatience that started it all. "It was strange, y'know. One second I was sat outside her sorority house, tossin' stones at her window, an' the next we were _livin'_ together. There was this _woman_ in my apartment who I ain't even seen without her makeup on, an' I realised… I didn't even _know_ this person. Hawk, it was a _mess_. I might'a cracked jokes about it in Korea, but when I really think about it…" He trailed off, shaking his head. It felt strange – sharing his woes over the breakdown of his marriage with the man he'd cheated on his wife with. How surreal could a man's personal life get? He looked up at Hawkeye, finding him listening intently, his face calm and concerned. Gentle, he reached out and stroked his cheek. "You're only the second person I've ever been with who I didn't just bang an' run. An' if I'm real honest with myself, the other one might'a been a different story if I hadn't had her father an' mine breathin' down my neck."

"You wouldn't have done that to her."

"I ain't so sure, Hawk. I can be a jerk when I'm backed into a corner. An' I'm not sure I want you to ever see that side of me. Every day we learn somethin' new about each other, an' I _love_ that – I love _you_ – but what happens when we run outta the good stuff?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "Then we deal with that when it comes to it. You think I'm all wine and roses? Trapper, we've fought before now, and we got through it. You know damned well I can be a piece of shit when I want to be, and we're still together."

Trapper's lips curved into a smile that could almost be described as shy. "Oh, that's what we are, is it?"

Hawkeye fell silent for a moment. Somewhere, in the awkward domesticity and the hesitant kisses on the landing, he realised that, somehow, that was exactly what they were. "Yeah…" His fingers intertwined with Trapper's, and he smiled warmly. "In all kinds of weather."

They stood there as the sun set, and the darkness swept across the sky above them. The sea continued to crash below, growing in volume. Still, Hawkeye's thumb traced over Trapper's fingers, a gesture hidden from the world, just as they had once done through the bars of a military stockade.

"By the way…" Hawkeye's words were murmured against Trapper's shoulder as he nestled his head there.

"Hmm?"

"I love you, too."

Trapper's heart soared, and his cautious smile widened to a grin.

Behind them, Daniel stirred from his nap, unfolded his old bones from the chair, and joined them on the little balcony. It was, by now, pitch black, and the older man surveyed the darkness. "We should get back," he said at last, almost apologetic. "There's a storm coming."

The younger men regarded the night air curiously. Even Hawkeye, who had lived here all his life, had never been able to read the air like a human barometer the way his father could. The Pierces had been fishermen up until Daniel. Maybe the ability diluted itself with each generation?

Reluctantly, he let go of Trapper's hand and followed his father inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Crabapple Cove, Maine - November, 1951**

Daniel had been right – there was a storm coming. Thunder had just begun to rumble in the distance as they drove up the winding road to the Pierce family home, and the first of the rain was just falling as they dashed inside.

"You boys had best take some candles up with you," Daniel announced as he rummaged under the kitchen sink. "With weather like this, the power's likely to…"

As if to prove a point, the electric lights flickered and died as Daniel re-emerged, distributing candles. Trapper chuckled. "Real high-tech setup you got here."

"Don't mock us simple country folk – ours was the first house on the street to get indoor plumbing! My grandfather installed it just to annoy the neighbours." Hawkeye struck a match and touched it to his candle. He shot Trapper a smile, looking almost sinister, illuminated by the glow of the flame. "We have all the mod cons here, City Boy!"

Trapper grinned. "Is that right?"

"You probably noticed the hot water in all those baths you keep taking."

Their eyes lingered across the table in the flickering candlelight, just for a second.

Daniel cleared his throat. "I'm going to turn in. I'm opening the clinic tomorrow morning. There's a nice bottle of claret in the cabinet that you boys can have if you fancy a drink." He paused to give Hawkeye a pointed look. "If you touch my Scotch, you're grounded."

Trapper let out a bark of laughter before he could hold it back.

"Don't think I'm kidding!"

With those words, the elder Doctor Pierce took his candle and made his way slowly up the stairs to bed.

* * *

It was a _very_ nice bottle of claret, and it went down beautifully as they sat together in the candlelight, the rain rattling on the roof and lashing against the windows. Soon, both Hawkeye and Trapper were nicely drunk and laughing raucously – especially Hawkeye, who had, it turned out, managed to drink more than anybody else while he was at Barney's, and was now nicely sloshed. He was slumped at the kitchen table, regaling Trapper with stories of how he and Tommy Gillis used to ride the little wooden milk cart up and down the halls in school – up until the day when the principal caught them, and Hawkeye was no longer permitted to be milk monitor.

The story was amusing, although clearly funnier if you'd been there, as Hawkeye was slapping the table and cackling into his wine glass. Trapper didn't mind – it was a delight to watch him revelling in his childhood memories. He knew he had a soppy smile on his face, and he didn't even bother to hide it.

Hawkeye eyed him and grinned. "What's that smile for?"

"This is just great, y'know." Trapper blushed a little and took a tip of wine.

"Yeah… it is." He grabbed the bottle. "I think it's a Cabernet Sauvignon. Oh, 1945!" At this – for some reason – he burst out laughing, pointing a shaking finger at the bottle. " _World War Two surplus_!"

Trapper howled with laughter. "That's just too perfect!"

"This is just like our first date!"

"Only with better wine!"

"Hey, I'll have you know I paid a dollar fifty for that stuff in Seoul!"

"You were ripped off!"

"I was?!" Hawkeye gazed about himself, his eyes a little glassy. "Oh, well I'm gonna go ask for my money back!" He rose from the table, staggered to the right, and held out his arm. "Taxi!" He collapsed in a drunken heap on the floor, giggling hysterically.

"You're pickled!"

"Only my head," Hawkeye countered as Trapper hauled himself to his feet and extended a hand down to help him up. "The rest of me is still fresh." He grasped Trapper's hand – and promptly pulled him onto the floor, too. Trapper landed with a thump, bracing himself above Hawkeye's sprawled form, nose to nose, and Hawkeye couldn't resist smirking and stealing a kiss. "See?" The smirk was then smothered as he pressed another playful, lingering kiss on Trapper's lips.

"Yeah, I'll say…" Trapper's suggestive mumbling managed to evade Hawkeye's ears, and, instead of protesting further, he let himself be kissed. At last, reluctantly, he pulled away, one hand still gently caressing Hawkeye's throat. What he wouldn't give to just stay here and kiss and nibble every inch of this delightful man! But it just didn't quite seem right – not now, and not here. But, God help him, he could think of nothing but, even as he tried to remove himself from atop the pleasantly warm body onto which he had sprawled. Hawkeye's wandering hands were not making things any easier! He gazed down at Hawkeye as he lay on the tiles, smiling. "We ought'a hit the sack."

"I _knew_ there was a reason you'd got me drunk, you devil!" A bony finger prodded Trapper in the ribs.

"That ain't what I meant! Come on, it's bedtime." Trapper grunted as he hauled the dead-weight that was Hawkeye Pierce to his feet, and navigated him towards the stairs. He slapped away Hawkeye's roaming hands as they traversed the creaky staircase. At last, he nudged him towards his bedroom. "Go on – beddy-byes!"

"You're no fun since we moved in together…"

"Just followin' your rules."

"Party-pooper…"

Hawkeye stuck his tongue out and finally retreated, leaving Trapper to take himself off to his own bed, alone. His tiny room felt cold and uninviting, and his bed especially cramped, the sheets in desperate need of warming. Trapper shivered as he undressed – his pyjamas weren't much warmer than wearing nothing! – and slid his legs into the icy bed. His breath was misty, even indoors, and he pulled the blankets up to his nose as he closed his eyes. What he wouldn't give to be curled up with Hawkeye! Even when he was drunk as a skunk…

As if in response to his very thoughts, his bedroom door opened a crack. For a moment, Trapper panicked – what if it was Hawkeye's father stopping by to scold him for their drunken antics earlier? – but, a moment later, Hawkeye's face appeared around the door. Trapper blinked at him. "Hi…"

" _Hi_!"

Hawkeye had that expression on his face and tone in his voice that signalled to anyone within earshot that he was on the prowl. The voice alone was enough to make Trapper cringe a little, given that Doctor Pierce Senior was asleep only a few feet away down the hall, but Hawkeye was, for the first time since Trapper's arrival in Crabapple Cove, unfazed. He was also, apparently, unfazed by the winter chill, as he'd stripped down to his boxers. "Aren't you cold?"

"I'm a Mainer – we have special fat reserves for Arctic conditions!"

Trapper snorted, eyeing Hawkeye scrawny – but really quite delicious – body. " _Where_?"

Hawkeye giggled. "Now, now…" He plopped himself down at the foot or Trapper's bed (almost on Trapper's foot) the ancient mattress sinking beneath him. He had that look about him: that not quite innocent smile that broadcast loud and clear that he had some nefarious cause in mind. That cause made itself known soon enough: His hand found Trapper's thigh, massaging it through the blankets.

Trapper tensed a little. "Anythin' I can help you with?"

" _I'll_ say!" A familiar, leering grin crossed his face, and then there was a gust of cold air as Trapper found his blankets being pulled back, and an equally cold Hawkeye squirmed his way underneath. The already cramped bed was suddenly even more cramped, and Trapper found himself with an armful of Arctic Mainer. He hugged him close as if on reflex, but somewhere in the back of his mind, this felt very uncomfortable. Part of him was relishing every moment, but it just… didn't feel right. Not here. Not when Hawkeye had expressly forbidden such activities in his father's home…

"Hawkeye…"

" _God_ , I've missed this!" Hawkeye's voice was pure sex, and it was shooting straight for places Trapper wasn't entirely sure he wanted it shooting for. A moment later, a leg swung over his hips, straddling him, and suddenly, Hawkeye was grinding himself against those very same places. But his attempt to protest was swallowed up in a kiss, and just for a moment, Trapper let himself be kissed. He ran his hands through the ebony hair and across cold, goosebumped flesh, and tried very hard not to think of all the things he would do to this beautiful man were they not in a cramped single bed in his late sister's nursery under his father's roof…

"Me too." The confession was drawn from Trapper's lips before his brain could engage.

And it only seemed to enflame Hawkeye's passions more. The kiss that followed was more forceful than anything else Trapper had ever experienced, and he found himself shaking a little. Hawkeye's hands pawed at him, aimless, just seeking flesh to squeeze and caress. "It's driving me crazy, you know – sleeping just a few feet down the hall from you, thinking of everything we could be doing."

Trapper swallowed. He'd been thinking about a lot of those things too, but right now he didn't really want to be. Hawkeye's usual hesitancy played out in the back of his mind, and he forced himself to be the sensible, sober one. He caught Hawkeye's wrists mid-grope and pushed him away. His voice was a pained whisper. "Hawkeye, you know full well I'd like nothin' more than to pin you down on this mattress an' give you the poundin' of a lifetime…"

At that, Hawkeye made an obscene sound and did something with his hips that made Trapper squirm. "Stop giving me ideas, Trapper…"

"… _but_ you said we ain't gonna do that in your father's house."

"So what? I'm susceptible to a change of heart!"

"You're susceptible to _booze_! If we do this, you'll feel terrible tomorrow!"

"So? I'll feel terrible tomorrow? Just let me feel _you_ tonight."

"Come _on_ , Hawk!" Gently, Trapper coaxed Hawkeye into a sitting position and freed himself.

Hawkeye returned, a little begrudgingly, to the side of the bed, slouched over, his elbows on his knees. He rubbed at his face with one bony hand, pouting sullenly at the tiny bed. "Did you know it's been _two months_ since we had sex?"

Trapper laughed. "Oh, is that all?"

"Oh, yeah – I keep forgetting, you're married. This is probably _normal_ for you!"

Trapper tried to ignore the barbed comment. "I'm just tryin'a do right by you an' your old man – not take any liberties."

"My liberties are yours! _Take them_!"

Trapper hushed him, once again aware of his voice carrying in the old house. "I'm just sayin'… slow it down a little, huh?"

" _Why_? Are you planning on running off to Louise again?" Hawkeye thumped the mattress, his expression darkening as he turned away.

"I ain't doin' nothin' of the sort! I just think…" Trapper paused, trying to put his thoughts into words. "You were right – it don't _feel_ right doin' it here – an' despite it bein' tough as anythin' lookin' atcha every day an' not bein' able to touch ya, God knows I feel closer to ya right now than I ever did all those times we were in bed together." Lovingly, he traced a hand up at down Hawkeye's back, feeling every vertebra in his slender body perfectly. "Let's just take it slow, huh? We got all the time in the world now."

Hawkeye snorted. "If you say so."

And there it was. There was the last little shred of doubt, laid bare by the honesty of drink. _In vino veritas_ as a wise Roman had once said. "You don't trust me."

Looking up, Hawkeye's eyes glistened a little in the moonlight. "I guess I don't."

The realisation stung, but Trapper knew deep down it would take more than a couple of weeks in Maine and a lobster supper to undo the damage he'd done outside Boston Airport. "That's okay… I get it, I really do. I'll prove myself to ya, I know it. I'm gonna make it up to ya, Hawkeye Pierce, you'll see if I don't. But I ain't about to take advantage of ya in the meantime." He could hardly believe the words coming from his own lips. Clearly, if too much red wine made Hawkeye horny, it made Trapper sentimental and introspective. "Give it time. We'll get there."

Hawkeye gave a nod, pouted slightly, and stared at the wall. "I knew I should have jumped you that night in the Swamp before the court martial!"

Wincing slightly, Trapper tried not to recall those far-from-pleasant times… "I wasn't in the mood."

"You're in the mood _now_." Hawkeye made a none-too-subtle glance towards Trapper's crotch.

Trapper pulled a pillow over his lap. " _He's_ in the mood. I ain't. An' _you're_ in a stupor." One of these three statements was a lie. "Did you even listen to a word I just said? I just suggested we take it slow! _Me_! Trapper John, king of the quick bunk up! You see what you've reduced me to!" He gave Hawkeye a playful prod, hoping to lift his spirits a little.

"Yes, I'm listening! I just…" Hawkeye sighed, rubbing at his temples as he tried to clear his head. "This is driving me nuts. We can't go on like this. We need to sort our lives out. Find a place of our own…"

Chuckling, Trapper settled down, hugging his warm pillow in the absence of a warm Hawkeye. "Two minutes ago you were aimin' to get laid, an' now you're talkin' real estate."

"I think I have a solution!" Hawkeye slid off the bed, sitting cross legged on the floor, facing Trapper. "When we were kids, Tommy and I built this treehouse. It's up in the woods, on the big hill overlooking the Cove. It was sturdy as hell, and _big_ too!"

"Are you suggestin' we go live in a treehouse?"

"No – I'm suggesting we go fuck in the treehouse, given that we can't do it here."

Hawkeye's voice was uncomfortably loud, but Trapper couldn't help but laugh at that. "You got a one track mind! Everythin' I just said to you, an' you're still talkin' sex!"

"Yeah, but that's why you love me, right?"

"Go to bed, Hawk."

"Okay – but if I don't get some action soon…"

"I said get gone!"

"… my virginity is gonna grow back!"

"You're drunk."

"I'll forget everything!"

"Go on, get outta here!"

"All those little tricks you like!"

Rising from the bed, Trapper propelled Hawkeye towards the door.

After a brief, comical struggle, Hawkeye relented and took the hint. He pecked Trapper on the nose. "Night, Trap."

"Goodnight, Hawkeye."

Hawkeye departed down the hall, and Trapped dived back into his warm bed. He listened, smiling as Hawkeye crept away, the floorboards creaking with every step. And then, just as the house fell silent, a voice from the next room announced, in a pointed tone, "Goodnight, Hawkeye…" There was a crash, and a yelp, and then a squeak of mattress springs as Hawkeye threw himself into bed in a panic. Trapper hid his face in the pillow and cringed.

* * *

The next morning, Trapper had looked anywhere but at Daniel; Hawkeye focussed intently on his oatmeal, hunched over the breakfast table, trying to make himself disappear; Daniel made casual conversation from behind his newspaper, sounding for all the world as if nothing had happened, save for the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice as he watched the younger pair cringe their way through breakfast.

"So," he asked, spearing another pancake from the stack in the centre of the table, "what do you fellas have planned for today?"

A duet of mumbling came across the table.

"Maybe you could take a walk into town? I've got some errands to run, groceries to pick up – you'd be saving me the bother."

Again, the mumbled responses: "Okay, if you want…" from Hawkeye and "Sure, not a problem" from Trapper.

Daniel sipped his coffee. "That's great… Now if either one of you could find it within himself to look me in the eye, I'll run through the list with you!"

Hawkeye groaned and sank further into his chair. Trapper cringed.

Tutting, Daniel calmly went back to his paper. "Honestly, you two…" He glanced up for a moment, and took a sip of coffee. "I was young and in love once."

Trapper relaxed at that, and chuckled a little, but Hawkeye tried to drown himself in his breakfast.

Setting his paper down on the table, Daniel smiled. "I remember a little less than thirty years ago, Hawkeye was about four years old… and not sleeping too well…"

Hawkeye's spoon hit the table with a clatter and his eyes went wide as saucers. "Dad, please, not this story…"

Daniel just chuckled and carried on regardless, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Josie and I had gone up for an early night…"

Trapper grinned knowingly, but Hawkeye's head snapped up, a look of horror on his face. " _Dad_!"

"And, all of a sudden, we hear this sweet, _innocent_ little voice…"

"Dad, I'm _begging_ you…"

"We look up, and there's little Hawkeye, standing there in the doorway! And he says, 'Daddy? What's wrong with Mommy?'" Trapper spluttered. Daniel smirked. "He thought–"

"I can imagine!"

" _Dad_! For the love of God, _stop_!"

Trapper howled with laughter. Hawkeye, meanwhile, turned bright red and beat a hasty retreat into the dining room, taking his oatmeal with him. That only made Trapper laugh more. "Hey, you made him _blush_! I'm impressed!"

Daniel smirked as he sipped his coffee. "That's a skill you get when your kids grow up a little."

There was another laugh on the tip of Trapper's tongue, but it was swallowed up when he had to gulp back the nausea he felt at the thought of the two kids he had growing up without him right now, back in Boston. And here he was, hundreds of miles away…

Suddenly serious, he looked at Daniel from across the table. "Doctor Pierce?" His voice came out a little shaky. "Jokin' aside, I'm real sorry about last night. I had no idea Hawkeye was so tanked. I figure we were a little… outta line, an' I… I meant no disrespect, I swear! I should'a–"

"Oh, for God's sake, don't _apologise_ for him!" Daniel's coffee cup thudded to the table. "Once you get into that habit, he'll never let you stop. I heard it all the time from his mother – in church, in department stores, you name it – always! 'Oh, I'm sorry for my son! Benjy doesn't realise his voice carries!' I caught him once trying to sneak a girl in through his bedroom window: _she_ looked guilty, he just sat there with this smirk on his face, thinking he was the Casanova of Crabapple Cove!" He cast a glance over to where Hawkeye was tucked up at the dining table, nursing both his hangover and his food. "Cheeky devil… Do me a favour, John. Take him out somewhere. Some fresh air might clear his head."

Trapper smiled and nodded. "I think it needs it."

Daniel laughed out loud, and Hawkeye groaned, pushed his oatmeal aside, and gently rested his head on the dining table.


	6. Chapter 6

**Crabapple Cove, Maine - November, 1951**

Life got a little better after that. Trapper felt marginally less on edge around his 'father-in-law' – at least, once it was apparent that he wasn't about to rain down fire and brimstone upon them for every little transgression – and Trapper and Hawkeye's world grew a little. They didn't fuck in the treehouse, but they did visit it, and explored the Cove together. They gravitated mostly towards the natural beauty that the area offered rather than risk drawing attention in town, but it was refreshing to enjoy the hiking trails and the coastlines, as well as all the little childhood hideaways Hawkeye had found growing up. Once again, Trapper relished each discovery and every childhood anecdote, and he began to love Crabapple Cove as much as Hawkeye did.

This was their sanctuary. They were isolated; safe in their solitude, but trudging through life directionless – which, to skilled doctors who had spent the best years of their lives forever striving towards another qualification, another career goal, was occasionally terrifying. Not to mention the awful, dreadful hole Trapper felt in his gut every day he was away from his children. Too many nights he would wake up in a cold sweat, reaching out for a tiny hand that he couldn't grasp. Sometimes he would cry. On those occasions, Hawkeye would tip-toe through from his room and perch on the end of Trapper's bed, whispering words of comfort. And Trapper would soak them up and hold him and thank him for being there, and he'd never felt so grateful to another human being in his life. But he could see the worry etched on Hawkeye's face – that the desperation to be reunited with his children might drag him away once more. It was a look that never quite seemed to fade, no matter what Trapper said to reassure him. It would take time, he kept reminding himself, and time was one thing they had in abundance.

Day after day ticked by, each one marked by nothing but its eventless, but altogether pleasant, mundanity.

It was the strangest combination of paradise and purgatory, and Trapper wasn't sure if they were pleasure cruising or sailing without a rudder. The world with all its judgements was kept at bay, but with it went all concept of identity, labels and security, and any kind of grounding over what exactly they were, as individuals or as a pair. All those old titles had gone – 'doctor'; 'father'; 'husband'. Trapper tried 'boyfriend' on for size and Hawkeye wrinkled his nose: "Trapper, I'm not twelve!" They continued to float through their days, learning more about one another but never discovering what they were, where they were going, or what they were going to do. 'Together' was one thing – what they were going to do with that was another matter entirely.

Their living situation was hardly perfect, either, with each of them taking joy in their proximity but forever feeling the distance between them. At night, the hallway felt like a chasm. During the day, they were joined at the hip.

They fell into the habit of watching TV together. All three of them, lined up in front of the box. His father would take a chair, and Hawkeye would have the sofa with Trapper at his side. While the flickering light and electronic voices filled the room, Hawkeye got surprisingly cosy, occasionally touching Trapper's arm before he leaned over to add his own comedic commentary to whatever show they were watching. Trapper would laugh, and Daniel would too. It felt… almost as if they had his approval, and some of the tension of their bizarre living arrangement melted away as they munched popcorn together and stared in unified horror at stop-motion animated clay monsters.

The phone ringing was unexpected. Again, Muriel was on call – it could only be an emergency – and Daniel raced to answer it on impulse, leaving the younger men to watch the show.

"Must be serious." Hawkeye looked worried. "Muriel can handle anything. She's a qualified nurse but practically a doctor everywhere except on paper. She's been studying at my dad's side since I was in high school. Got me through my first year medical exams."

Both Hawkeye and Trapper half-listened to Daniel's clipped responses through the open door, incapable of ignoring a potential medical situation. Then, without ringing off, Daniel returned. "It's for you."

He was looking at Trapper.

Hawkeye's blood ran cold. There was only one person that could be. Trapper had posted contact details to his wife several days ago, should she – or her lawyer – wish to get in touch with him. And now, the look Trapper gave him was almost a guilty one. Through his invitation, Louise had infiltrated their inner sanctum. Their fortress was compromised.

Daniel confirmed his fears: "Louise."

Hawkeye stared, his face an unreadable mask. Somehow, he managed to keep his voice from trembling as he told Trapper, "Go on – talk to her."

It had to be said, Hawkeye did a fantastic job of not showing how terrified he was. His trust, what little there was of it, shattered at little more than the mention of that dreaded name. Outwardly, however, his expression barely flickered. But Daniel knew how to read his son like a book, and, as Trapper stood and wordlessly left the room, he saw his son's face crease, emotions rising to the surface, rippling and uncontrollable.

They didn't talk. As usual, the Pierce family tendency towards awkward silence stood firm, and instead they sat wordlessly at opposite ends of the couch as Trapper's mumbled replies wafted through from the hall.

He didn't say much, and as the conversation dragged on, Hawkeye grew more and more tense. His doubts spiralled into fears – fear that two weeks of cosy co-habitation would never be enough to stand up to seven years of marriage and two children; that a change of heart on Louise's part would be enough to bring Trapper running, and he would be on a bus home tomorrow.

He tried not to show it. He fought to smile through the tears. He laughed at the TV, made stupid jokes, commented on the wardrobe choices of the lead actor – anything to distract from the fact that his hands were shaking and his eyes were glistening. Daniel watched him with growing distress, but all he could bring himself to do was move into the spot next to his son and put a comforting hand on his arm.

In the hall, Trapper's disjointed semi-conversation changed tone, and his voice cracked as he asked "Can I speak to my girls?" and a moment later, a playful, joyous, even sing-song tone rang out. "Hello, my darling! Daddy's missed you too…" This went on for some time, as Trapper tried to catch up on every little corner of each daughter's life – school, friends, games, new toys, and anything else he might have missed in his absence. His despondency when it was time to say 'goodbye' was more than evident.

Then, more mumbled monosyllables to Louise, and a quiet, terrifying "I'll be back soon," before he finally hung up.

Hawkeye went cold. He still stared, unmoving at the TV. Daniel Pierce got slowly to his feet and left the room.

When Trapper walked in a minute later, Hawkeye didn't look up. He just sat there, his eyes fixed forward so Trapper wouldn't see the tears glistening in them. "You know what ruins TV compared to the movies?" he said at last, still not looking up. "Canned laughter. Who invented that? I don't need my television telling me when to laugh. I know what's funny. I don't need some Hollywood sound editor telling me where the funny bits are. If I did, then someone needs to fire the script writers, because they're clearly not doing their job." His voice was tight, his joviality forced.

Trapper gave a glance in the direction of the set, where tonight's episode of some mediocre sitcom was still going through its formulaic, domestic paces. The husband had done something mildly silly, and the incident had inflated to ludicrous proportions before the first commercial break on the basis that, for some reason, married couples on television didn't know how to have a conversation. But all would no doubt be resolved and they would return to their normal, loving selves by the end with no long term repercussions in exactly the same way real people didn't. Trapper turned back to the man on the couch. "Hawkeye?"

There was silence. At last, Hawkeye stared at Trapper.

Trapper stood quietly, hands behind his back. "Mind if we step outside?"

"You're gonna fight me for my opinions on light entertainment sound editing? Since when did you care so much about the arts?" Hawkeye's voice was flat and miserable, and Trapper didn't laugh.

"Hawk?" Trapper didn't offer any further explanation – he merely gestured to the back yard. Hawkeye abandoned all resistance and rose from the couch to lead the way onto the side porch, where they had reconciled only two short weeks prior. This time, Trapper took the steps down onto the lawn, pacing out into the garden, while Hawkeye sat down on the decking, trembling a little and watching sullenly with his head in his hands. He should have known this was coming. He should never have been so trusting. He knew all too well he could never win out against Louise McIntyre and her adorable brace of McIntyres. Trapper would always come running.

In the chill of the autumn air, Trapper shivered, withdrawing a Zippo lighter from one trouser pocket, and a cigar from the other. He bit the end off, gripped it between his lips and lit it, sucking thoughtfully and blowing smoke rings into the darkness.

"That was Louise," he said at last, as if he had been struggling to put his news into words.

"No kidding!" Hawkeye quipped. "I thought it was MacArthur begging you to re-enlist."

Trapper looked taken aback by his sarcasm, and swiftly moved to clarify: "I'm gettin' a divorce."

Hawkeye looked up, and the tension drained from his face. A grin appeared. " _Really_? That's _great!_ " He was on his feet, slinging his arms around Trapper's neck. "Oh my God, for a minute there I thought… Forget what I thought. This is _fantastic_!" He hugged him so tight Trapper could barely breathe, then kissed him – deeply and passionately – the first proper, intense kiss since he'd got here. Since they left Korea. Suddenly, he pulled away. "Sorry – I… that's probably not so great from your point of view."

Sighing, Trapper drew closer once more, rested his head in the cosy crook of Hawkeye's neck, and let himself be held. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, if he was honest with himself. A terrifying mix of regret, excitement, guilt, relief and failure welled up inside him. It was almost too much to bear. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of holding Hawkeye close, and grateful beyond measure that he still had him. "There's more."

Hawkeye pulled away for a moment, his eyes full of worry again. "What?"

"She's said I can see the girls – if I co-operate with her demands in the divorce."

Hawkeye's face fell. "Which are _what_ exactly?"

"She wants… the house, the car, an' child support 'til the girls turn eighteen."

"What does _that_ leave you with?"

Trapper scowled. "A whole lotta nothin' that's what! But I ain't got a choice if I wanna see my kids again!"

"But… Trapper, that's _blackmail_! That's holding your own kids to ransom! She can't do that."

"Actually, she can. With my record, she can deny me access any time she likes. An' the law is on her side. Accordin' to the courts, I'm a pervert."

Hawkeye nodded. He understood. "You're giving her everything, aren't you?"

Trapper's eyes glistened. "I have to see my girls." He grasped Hawkeye's hand tightly – so tight his hand trembled. "An' that means… I have to go back to Boston."

"Right." Hawkeye nodded, Trapper's earlier words echoing in his head: _My children will always come first_. How could he compete with this? He wanted desperately to break free from Trapper's grasp and run upstairs to hide in his room. He pulled away on instinct. There was no use holding on now. It was nice while it lasted.

But Trapper refused to let go. Wouldn't look away as he dropped his voice and pulled him close. "Would ya come with me?"

Hawkeye blinked at him, his brain doing a double take. "Could you run that by me again? My paranoia was talking over you."

"Come with me." For a man who was about to sign away everything he had, Trapper looked remarkably happy. "Look, we can't stay here forever. I love your old man, but I can't live in that box room all my life. I'll go stir-crazy in there! Damnit, Hawk, I'm thirty-four years old! I don't wanna be spendin' my nights in a three foot bed with nothin' but a stuffed rabbit an' the linen closet for company! I wanna curl up with you an' listen to you fall asleep when I'm tryin'a talk to ya! I wanna plan romantic dinners for the two of us, an' then realise I don't know how to cook half the stuff an' order pizza to eat in the candlelight! I wanna…" He dropped his voice and glanced towards the house. "I wanna screw on the livin' room rug because I want you so bad we don't make it as far as the bedroom!"

Hawkeye laughed at that one – and actually blushed. Trapper rarely saw him blush, and he decided it was the most beautiful thing in the world and he wanted to make him do it as often as he could. His eyes crinkled as he chuckled at Trapper's declaration, but he couldn't hide how those words made him feel.

"I know it ain't gonna be easy…" Trapper brushed Hawkeye's hair from his face. "God knows, we got a hard enough time ahead of us with our records without drawin' attention to ourselves. An', for what it's worth, it's my opinion that you could probably do alright for yourself right here – without me."

Hawkeye snorted. "Doing _what?_ "

" _Anythin_ '. You got your dad takin' care o' you, an' a family practice you could walk into tomorrow if you wanted to."

"People would ask questions… We talked about this!"

Trapper sighed. "I know, you said. But you could _try_. Or you could stay here an' have a roof over your head an' food on the table. _Your_ old man ain't about to toss you out. An' that's sayin' somethin'."

"What kind if a life is that? I _did_ that for a month before you got here. There's an indentation in the couch from my not moving from it for three weeks! I drank my dad's liquor cabinet dry, I lost about ten pounds, and between you and me, my love affair with Lucille Ball was embarrassingly one-sided. It wasn't a life – it was an _existence_. I _love_ Crabapple Cove, but I don't want to _rot_ here! What are you trying to say anyway – are you trying to talk me out of this relationship? Toss me back before things get too serious? Because if so–"

"I just… wanna make sure you think about it before you answer. It ain't gonna be an easy life for either of us if we do this! But the way I see it, we lost everythin' that day in Korea when they handed us our discharge papers. Seems crazy not to make a go of it now."

Nodding, Hawkeye tried to process his words – what they meant for the future. _Their_ future. "In Boston?"

"In Boston." He gave Hawkeye's hand a squeeze.

"You and me?"

"Yeah." Trapper smiled at the very thought.

"We'd have to find work."

"We'd have to do that here, eventually."

"There's not much of it to be found with an Undesirable Discharge following you around."

"It's a big city. _Someone's_ gotta cut us some slack. An' it's not like we don't know the area. Could get an apartment, our own place…"

"I _have_ an apartment. It's being rented out to an oncologist I knew from my residency."

Trapper's face lit up. "So, let's go there! You an' me!" Trapper found himself laughing. He was so happy he could burst! "That is… if you want to."

Hawkeye beamed, and shrugged. "What have we got to lose?"

Suddenly, the world seemed to glow with possibilities. They sat outside, not caring of the cold. Trapper puffed on his cigar, unable to wipe the smirk off his face. A thousand and one brilliant, ridiculous plans swam through his head, and some not so ridiculous ones. They would have a _life_ together – him and Hawkeye.

Holding him tightly, Trapper felt his face might split from smiling. "Can you imagine – our own place?"

 _Their_ place. It had a pleasant ring to it.

"And not just a tent in a warzone – this place has _walls_."

"Well, ain't that fancy!" Trapper laughed and blew a smoke ring into the night.

Hawkeye grinned at him. "C'mere." He wrapped his arms around Trapper once more and kissed him. Then he pulled away for a moment and coughed. "You taste disgusting!"

Giving a guilty laugh, Trapper eyed his cigar. "Yeah, sorry." He released Hawkeye and went to stub it out.

But Hawkeye grabbed him. "No – I don't care." Then he kissed him again. And again. And again.

And Trapper felt lost and found all at the same time, about to embark on a voyage into the unknown, but with Hawkeye by his side – his anchor in the oncoming storm. Somehow, it felt like more of a genuine commitment than his marriage ever did. This was no scripted ceremony, no frantic signing of legal documents in preparation for the birth of an unexpected child, but a conscious, deliberate choice to move forward together. It felt _real_. It felt solid. And, with Hawkeye kissing him like this, it was feeling more and more exciting…

"Hawkeye?" He only just managed to get the word out between kisses.

"Trapper?" His name was practically sighed against his lips as Hawkeye refused to relinquish contact.

Trapper gasped a lungful of breath, trying to retain some sense of composure as his blood began to rush south, followed swiftly by Hawkeye's hands. Trapper grabbed them.

Pulling away for a moment, Hawkeye blinked at him, an expression on his face that was half arousal, half embarrassment as he remembered where he was. He laughed, regaining control over himself but relishing the temporary loss of it. It felt _good_ to be a little reckless. And, somehow, even though it was just kissing, the intimacy they had just shared somehow felt ten times more passionate than if they had just fucked in the spare room. This was special – this was no drunken tryst; no frantic screw in the supply shed because they thought they'd never get another chance. This was a _consummation_ , the physical act of cementing the commitment they had just made, a passion born not of desperation or of liquor, but of the realisation that they'd made the leap they had been longing to make together.

"If we don't go inside…" Hawkeye panted a little as he gestured into the distance, "I'm going to throw you over my shoulder and drag you off to my tree house."

"Easy, Tarzan. Shall we just… uh…" Trapper jabbed his thumb in the direction of the house and went to head indoors.

Hawkeye smiled as he watched him make his way up the steps on shaking legs. "Oh, and Trapper?"

"Huh?" Trapper spun on his heel on the porch and nearly fell down the steps as Hawkeye grabbed him once more and kissed him fiercely.

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

"Want you quite a bit, too, if I'm honest…"

Trapper stole yet another kiss, his whole body trembling. When he next spoke, his voice came out rough with desire. " _Soon_ , Hawk. Real soon…"

* * *

 ** _Ten minutes earlier…_**

 _Trapper reset the receiver and fell against the wall. An odd mixture of relief and terror rushed over him. He had his children back. But he had to go back to Boston. But he had his children back. But he was about to get divorced…_

 _He stood in the darkness of the hallway trying to work out where to go from here. He didn't notice Daniel walk in from the living room until they were practically nose to nose._

 _"_ _My son," Daniel whispered, "is in there crying his heart out. He thinks you're leaving him._ Again _. Go talk to him." It was unclear at this volume whether or not Daniel thought the same thing. Trapper guessed it might have crossed his mind, but he barely had time to feel grateful that the older man hadn't made good on his promise and tossed him out on his ass. Daniel turned and began to head up the stairs._

 _"_ _Wait!" Trapper caught his arm. "Don't worry." His voice was a whisper, too._

 _"_ _Don't tell me that – tell him." Daniel jabbed a finger towards the door._

 _But Trapper wasn't quite ready. "Look – before I do, I wanna ask you… That call… Louise wants me to…" He paused, taking a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts. "If I asked Hawkeye to move back to Boston with me… I mean, to live. Together." He faltered and tried again. "I mean, I don't want to drag 'im away, but… my kids…"_

 _Chuckling slightly, Daniel patted him affectionately on the arm. "Oh, John – are you asking for my blessing?"_

 _A small, embarrassed smile crossed Trapper's features. "Yeah, I guess I am."_

 _Daniel's eyes widened, and he glanced heavenward as if hoping for some divine inspiration over what to do. "Never thought I'd have someone ask me that question!" He pondered for a moment. "Aw, shoot – I can't answer that. He'd probably think it was condescending if I said 'yes', and if I said 'no' he'd only do it anyway. It's his choice – it's not up to me to stand in his way, or to… wave you on like some sort of gatekeeper. Just ask him." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver case. Snapping it open, he handed Trapper a cigar. "For the nerves," he told him. "Go on now. If he says yes, you can consider yourself blessed."_

 _He gave one Trapper another pat on the shoulder, and then made his way upstairs. Trapper watched him go, and he smiled._

 _"_ _I will..."_


	7. Chapter 7

**Crabapple Cove – December, 1951**

"Hey, Trapper! Look!"

"In a minute."

Trapper was busy poring over a recipe book, trying to figure out how to make chowder out of the ingredients that he and Hawkeye had picked up from the market that morning, but now, it seemed, his home economics teacher was distracted by the scenery. Hawkeye tugged on his sleeve. "Come on – the clams can wait! Come look at this!"

Sighing, Trapper abandoned his attempt at domesticity and allowed himself to be pulled over to the window. "What's the big… _oh_!"

The yard was covered in a fresh dusting of snow, pale and ethereal like some sort of postcard. Not just the yard, but the mountains and the trees and the cliffs – everything, stretching into the distance. It was quite, quite beautiful. From the vantage point of their little house on the hill, they could see the entire north side of the bay, surrounded on all sides with pine trees and spruces, the icy flakes clinging to their needles. The sun was just setting, and the entire scene was cast with the eerie blue of twilight.

"Oh…" Trapper exclaimed again. "Well, ain't that somethin'?"

"Isn't it beautiful?" They stood for a while, gazing out of the window, Hawkeye nestling into Trapper's arms and tucking his head into the crook of his shoulder. "I'm gonna miss this place," he confessed, his fingers kneading the wool of the sweater he'd bought for him on their way to the fishmonger's.

"I know." Trapper pressed a gentle kiss to his head. "Hey, I'd better get on with this thing. I wanna be done by the time your old man gets home. Kind of a 'thank you' for puttin' me up these last few weeks."

"Hmm." Hawkeye reluctantly let Trapper return to his recipe book, but hovered over his shoulder, watching. "You know, I make a fantastic chowder."

"You do, huh?"

"Mmmmm. My mother taught me."

"I wish she was here." Trapper battled with a particularly stubborn clam and nearly took his thumb off.

"I'll tell you what!" Hawkeye's arms snaked around Trapper's waist. "When we're settled in Boston, I'll make chowder every Friday! Mom's recipe – it's heaven in a bowl."

"Well, ain't you the perfect little woman?"

"Never – I look terrible in a skirt. I don't have the thighs for it. _You_ , on the other hand…" His hands wandered south a little.

" _Hey_! No gropin' the cook!"

"Sorry!" Hawkeye grinned cheekily and helped himself to a glass of the Riesling Trapper had planned to serve with dinner. "Won't it be _wonderful_ , though? Home cooking in our own Boston pad? No more cramped beds, draughty tents or army slop? No Frank Burns threatening to break up our private parties?"

"No more lice!"

"No more fleas!"

"An' _real_ gin – bought from a liquor store like real people!"

"We can go to the movies and hold hands in the dark!"

"I can take the girls for ice cream without Louise complainin' about makin' 'em hyper!"

"Saturday mornings in bed, Saturday afternoons in front of the box, and Saturday nights drinking cocktails with friends in a cosy little bar downtown…"

Trapper dropped the knife as he fiddled with a particularly stubborn clam. It clattered to the floor. Suddenly, this conversation wasn't as nice as it had been. "If memory serves, Hawk, most of your friends went the same way as mine."

"We'll make new ones." Hawkeye waved dismissively and sipped his wine. "Boston's a big city. And we're friendly guys. We'll go out, like we used to, meet new people and uh… you know."

"Right." Trapper picked up the knife and attacked the clam again. It opened with a loud crunch. "And what are we gonna tell 'em…" He trailed off when he saw Hawkeye steal a chunk of whitefish and pop it into his mouth.

Hawkeye stared back at him, licking his fingers. "What?"

Trapper's jaw dropped. "Hawkeye, that's _raw_!"

Hawkeye chewed thoughtfully. "So?"

"You can't eat _raw meat_!"

"It's not meat – it's fish!"

"Same thing!"

"No it's not! Try some!"

"No! That's disgusting!"

"Oh go on! Just a little nibble!"

The utensils clattered to the floor again, and the recipe book fell over as both men proceeded to wrestle over a small piece of whitefish, grappling and cavorting. They only stopped when the kitchen door slammed.

" _Dad_!"

Daniel Pierce walked into the kitchen without a word, tossing his bag into the corner with a crash. Hawkeye, as always, leapt away from Trapper like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

But Daniel barely glanced at them. He flung his hat in the vague direction of the hooks beside the door, and stalked out of the room with the same miserable expression as when he had entered it.

Hawkeye's brow knitted in worry, and he gave Trapper a gentle nudge back towards the stove. Not wanting to get in the way of a family chat, Trapper engrossed himself in cooking, and Hawkeye followed his father, venturing down the hall with slow, reluctant steps.

He found his coat first, slung over the bannister. Its owner was in the living room, clutching a brandy in a trembling hand. Hawkeye lingered at the doorway. If there was one thing the Pierce family were worse at than serious father-son conversations, it was serious son-father ones, and Hawkeye was stumped as to where to start. He walked all-too-casually into the room, wiping his palms on his cords as he perched himself on the furthest-most arm of the couch. "You're home early."

"Clinic was slow." Daniel took a sip of brandy and scowled across the room at the wallpaper.

"Oh." Hawkeye nodded. Accusing his father of being a liar didn't come easily. "So… how was your day?"

"Same as any other."

"Oh…" Another nod, and Hawkeye stared thoughtfully at the rug. "Anybody I know happen by? Any of Martha's kids, or…"

"Nobody worth mentioning, no." Daniel's voice was a little brusquer, his posture a little stiffer. Had Trapper been in the room, he would have noticed that Daniel had the same uneasy twitch as his son whenever he was trying not to show that something had upset him. Hawkeye noticed it, but years of familiarity was not enough to equip him with the skills to break down the wall that erupted between them every time an issue of emotional importance threatened their idyllic existence.

Deterred and disheartened, Hawkeye rose from the couch, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Oh. Well, I'll be… uh…" His usually extensive vocabulary deserted him, and he gestured to the door with a nod of his head before retreating from the room.

He almost collided with Trapper in the darkened hall, and they stood, nose to nose, Trapper's hands moving instinctively to Hawkeye's arms, his thumbs moving in gentle, soothing circles.

"I don't know what's wrong," Hawkeye sighed, answering a question Trapper had yet to put into words. "I tried talking to him, but…" He concluded with a defeated shrug.

Trapper's mouth quirked into a lopsided semi-smile. "Ya did, huh?"

He paused for a moment, his eyes flickering from Hawkeye's face to the open doorway. Then, with a deep breath, he brushed past him, and into the living room.

Daniel was still sitting nursing his brandy, as Hawkeye had found him. He didn't look up as Trapper walked in, even as he moved closer to seat himself on the sturdy coffee table close-by, his elbows resting on his knees. When Trapper spoke, his voice was gentle and low, a far cry from his usual tone, which seemed to possess a constant underlying sense of amusement at everything around him. But now, he was calm. "Doctor Pierce?"

Daniel looked up, his mouth drawn into a solemn, almost angry frown. His lower lip curled as he worried at it with his teeth, and suddenly, for the first time, Trapper could really see the resemblance between him and Hawkeye. Trapper had seen enough family photographs to know that Hawkeye took after his mother in almost every way. Daniel was stocky while his son was slight; his eyes were brown, while Hawkeye's were sky blue; Daniel's brow and jawline were strong and heavy, his nose straight – quite the opposite of Hawkeye's narrow chin, almost impossibly smooth brow, and the quite adorable upturned tip of his nose. And yet, in spite of it all, these two very different faces had one thing in common: they had the same _sulk_. And if there was one thing Trapper John McIntyre had learned to handle well over these past few months, it was a Pierce sulk.

Trapper took a deep breath. "It looks to me like ya had somethin' of a lousy day."

Out in the hallway, Hawkeye twitched, and pressed his back against the wall. He knew this tone well enough. He'd heard it in Trapper's voice after their more gruelling O.R. sessions. It was the voice he used when Hawkeye had settled himself in the Swamp and knocked back three neat gins without pausing for breath. It was the tone that was used somewhere in between Trapper prising the glass from his hands and holding him when he cried.

Daniel, meanwhile, glanced up at the man sitting on his coffee table. His nose crinkled, and he buried it in his glass. "You could say that."

Trapper watched as the brandy glass rose to Daniel's lips, and stayed there for some time. It was half empty by the time it returned. "I figured." Trapper sighed. "Now, your business is your own, an' I ain't about to sit here an' try an' drag every detail outta ya, but if somethin's been said that impacts on me an' Hawk, I'd sure like to hear about it – because we sure as hell can't do anythin' about it 'less you tell us."

His brandy, hovering halfway to his lips, Daniel fixed Trapper with a hauntingly familiar stare. "You don't pull your punches, do you?"

"No, Sir." Trapper shook his head. "I lived with your son for the best part of a year – I learned fast. He can tap-dance 'round an issue all day. If you want straight answers, you gotta nail his feet to the floor. Seems to be a trait that runs in the family, if ya don't mind my sayin' so."

For the first time that evening, Daniel Pierce smiled. Then, a moment later, he laughed. Out in the hall, Hawkeye breathed a sigh of relief.

"Somebody came into the clinic." Daniel spoke quietly, his voice tight, wavering slightly. "Mrs Cooper – runs a craft store up on West Street. Widowed. Likes to talk…" He paused for a moment, staring into his glass. "Said she'd seen you and Hawkeye in town this morning… and she was surprised to see him back here." He paused, laughing bitterly as he sipped his drink. "I think I told every soul in this town when Hawkeye made surgeon. 'My son's a chest cutter in Boston General!' Now she wants to know why he's back home… and she wants to know who _you_ are. She said…" He paused, worrying at his lip again for a moment before giving Trapper an apologetic look. "She said you were 'standing awful close' at the crosswalk outside her store this morning."

"Oh, jeez…" Trapper buried his head in his hands. "I'm sorry."

"I think I dealt with it. I told her he was… on vacation after coming home from Korea, and that you were a close friend who was helping him rehabilitate. And I said he'd be going back to Boston soon." Daniel's shoulders sagged and he rubbed a trembling hand over his face. "I knew something like this would happen! Hawkeye warned me, but… I just didn't think it would be so soon! Not here – not in Crabapple Cove. These are good people!"

"Good people or no, you can't expect everybody to understand."

Daniel glanced at Trapper, his lips curving into an almost apologetic smile. " _I_ did. It took Hawkeye spelling it out for me, but…"

Trapper looked up, wishing it was really that easy. "Is this gonna cause trouble for you?"

Sighing, Daniel stared out of the living room window at the scattering of lights that nestled within the dense pine trees that crowded this part of the bay. "If she called Boston General tomorrow," he stated thoughtfully, "and asked the right questions – talked to the right people – there's no doubt they'd tell her why he was dismissed. But she probably won't… Probably."

He looked away, chewing anxiously on a hangnail. Trapper rose from the table. There was nothing more to be said; no hypothesising or discussing what was to be done. _Nothing_ was to be done, save for Hawkeye and Trapper's necessary and swift departure from the Cove before anyone else could get suspicious.

Trapper found him in the hall, his back resting against the wall, his head bowed in thought. Wordlessly, he gathered him in his arms, holding him close, as if he could ward off the prying eyes and wagging tongues of his neighbours.

His face buried against Trapper's chest, Hawkeye sniffed loudly and drew a shaky breath. "I don't know why it's hit me so hard. I mean, I knew it would happen… I told him! I _warned_ him! Goddamn it…" They held one another for a while, standing stock still in the darkness of the hallway, as if they could hide here forever if they just remained still and silent. Around them, framed portraits of three generations of Pierces looked down from the walls, gazing with motionless eyes on the fated son who was finally being driven from the town that had housed his family for over a century.

At last, Hawkeye lifted his head, gazing down the hallway at nothing. "I love this place so much, sometimes I just hate it."

Pulling away, he returned to the kitchen, leaving Trapper to wonder at his words.

He found him at the stove a moment later, chopping fish and shelling clams with considerable skill and even more furious energy. Trapper loitered at his elbow, watching as the blade of the kitchen knife drew dangerously close to Hawkeye's fingers. He chose his next words carefully.

"How long do you have until that oncologist clears outta your apartment?"

"Monday." Hawkeye's lip curled as a clam shell crunched sickeningly in his hands.

"Okay…."

Hawkeye closed his eyes, resting his hands on the counter for a moment, as if trying to gather his strength. "I'll talk to dad, ask if he'll take us in the truck. Doctor Harper said he'll have the keys handed in by eight o'clock, so if we head out in the small hours…"

"Drive down overnight? In the snow? What the hell for?!"

"So the neighbours who've attended the Pierce family practice for thirty years don't see me running away with my stethoscope between my legs like I've got something to be ashamed of…" His hands were shaking a little, but he refused to buckle. "It'll be fine," he said, in a voice that crept up an octave for all the reaching he was doing. "We'll just… drive right outta here. They'll never even know we're gone. Most people don't even know we're here."

"Right..." It all sounded so simple! He made it sound like driving off on vacation when he was effectively being run out of his home town by malicious gossip. But his dismissive words were betrayed by the way he was staring out of the window with a sorrowful look in his eyes that just broke Trapper's heart. Gently, Trapper wrapped his arms around him.

"Sorry to put ya through all this, Hawk."

"It's okay." Hawkeye turned in his arms, facing him and pressing a gentle, swift kiss to his lips. "We have to get out of here sooner or later. Look at it this way – the faster everybody forgets about me, the sooner we can come back and visit – and nobody'll know who we are!"

There was a smile on his face, but his voice held a bitter edge, and Trapper squeezed him a little tighter. It was shocking to think that they would be settled in Boston in a few short days, and yet… neither one of them was making the move without a few regrets. Hawkeye would no doubt miss the Cove, and Trapper would still be living apart from his daughters. But what choice did they have?

Trapper returned Hawkeye's kiss, and coaxed him away from the counter. "Come on, Benjamin Franklin Crocker – I ain't ever gonna learn if you keep doin' everythin' for me."

He resumed prepping the fish, and Hawkeye washed his hands and picked up his glass of wine again, staring out of the window once more. "God, I'm gonna miss this place."

Frowning, Trapper focused intensely on the shelling of the remaining few clams. He wasn't about to patronise Hawkeye with lip-service reassurances. He didn't know what it was like to have a hometown to cherish – his childhood home in the Boston slums had been torn down years ago – and his relationship with his parents was, at best, strained, and, at worst, non-existent. His last conversation with his mother had been a blazing row in the middle of the living room, and his last contact with his father had been a painfully abrupt message via Louise that he wasn't welcome in the family home until he 'got help'. And the sad thing was, he was angrier with himself for failing them than he was with them for rejecting him! He could live with their coldness and their dismissive attitudes – he had done so all his life – but he struggled to cope with their disappointment. He realised, with a bizarre combination of gratitude and bitterness, that he already had a better relationship with Daniel Pierce than he ever had with his own father.

A movement in the reflection in the kitchen window caught his attention, and he turned. Daniel Pierce lingered hesitantly in the doorway, not speaking, just watching them. Hawkeye turned, too, and father and son exchanged a weak smile. At last, Daniel stepped forward, depositing a now-empty brandy glass on the kitchen table, and enveloping Hawkeye in hug. Trapper stood back, watching with a sense of both affection and envy. Hawkeye, despite being a good few inches taller than his father, seemed to shrink before his very eyes, curling in on himself, tucked into the crook of his arm, as if regressing into childhood. It was like he was a small boy again, seeking the comfort and protection of a parent's arms against a frightening world. Somehow, it brought tears to Trapper's eyes. His own father had never held him like that, even when he was a child.

And then, much to Trapper's surprise, Daniel looked up at him, and held out his other arm to him.

Trapper didn't know how to respond. He almost refused on account of embarrassment, but, somehow, it felt right. He set the kitchen knife down, wiping his hands as he stepped closer, and allowed the man he had come to know as his father-in-law to embrace him. He felt slightly awkward standing there in this silent, three-way hug, but it felt warm and accepting in a way his own family had never been, and so, there he stayed.

They stood in silence, staring out of the window across the bay. The snow continued to fall, darkness continued to descend, and gradually, Crabapple Cove became covered in a thick, cold blanket of frost and ice.


	8. Chapter 8

**Crabapple Cove, Maine - December, 1951**

Sunday night was drawing on. Hawkeye sat on the couch, his various belongings boxed up or shoved in cases. Trapper was beginning to wonder how he had fit all of this into his tiny childhood room.

He was also beginning to wonder how they were going to get it all to Boston, on the basis that Daniel had vanished some time ago with Muriel and had yet to return.

He paced anxiously to the front door for the fifth time, opening it and stepping out onto the porch to peer expectantly down the narrow, winding street, which was rapidly vanishing under the thickening snow.

On the couch, Hawkeye shivered. "Stop that, will you? You're letting all the warm air out!"

Trapper slammed the door, twitchy and irritated. They'd all taken a late afternoon nap in preparation for the overnight move, but now, tanked up on coffee and adrenaline, Trapper was as cranky as an exhausted toddler. "What's takin' your pop so long anyway?" He sank onto the couch beside Hawkeye and bounced his fist rhythmically against the upholstered arm. "It's a small town, for god's sake! There can't be anybody who lives more than a ten minute drive away, even In this kinda weather!"

Hawkeye sighed, his patience wearing thin. "If it's an emergency, he'll stay with them until the ambulance gets there. Like you say it's a small town. This isn't the emergency room at Boston Memorial. Muriel'll run him back as soon as she can. Now will you settle down?"

Trapper twitched and kicked his suitcase. He felt so useless! Sitting here, Hawkeye's possessions boxed up and ready to go, his own probably boxed up in a house hundreds of miles away (if they hadn't been tossed out with the garbage), and here he was, waiting for Hawkeye's dad to return from a patient call so he could drive them down to Boston! And to think he had a shiny '47 Chevy sitting on a driveway in Massachusetts! "Goddamn it…"

"Calm down!" Hawkeye's hand grasped his arm gently, trying to soothe him. "He can't be gone much longer."

They sat in silence, Hawkeye stroking his fingers up and down Trapper's sleeve, Trapper beating up on the furniture. At last, it was the latter who spoke first: "You know, your dad's truck's still on the driveway…"

Hawkeye's head snapped up. " _So_?"

"So… we could always load up, an' if he's not back by say… four…"

"We're _not_ just taking my dad's truck while he's on call!"

"I'll bring it back tomorrow an' take the sleeper train home!"

" _Oh_ no! I'm not setting foot outside this house without saying goodbye to my dad!"

The comforting fingers were gone, and Hawkeye turned away, glowering at his pile of luggage. He folded his arms and crossed his legs, practically building a wall with his own body.

Trapper fumbled for an explanation. "Hey, I'm sorry! I told Louise to expect me at the house at noon to pick up my stuff! Now with the weather bein' like it is, there's a chance the girls'll be home from school! I wanna see my _kids_! An' even if I don't, I ain't about to give Louise any more ammunition against me by turnin' up late!"

Hawkeye's tone softened a little. "The weather's bad – she'll understand."

"Oh yeah? How many ex-wives have _you_ got?"

Hawkeye chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to appreciate Trapper's urgency. "Okay, okay. If dad's not back by four, take the truck. I can give you the address for the apartment and the spare set of keys. I'll stick around, say my goodbyes and take the train in the morning."

Cradling his head in his hands, Trapper sighed wearily. "I had no idea movin' in with somebody was a military exercise…"

"It is when you're moving across three states in the _snow_ , and _you_ have an ex-wife holding your kids to ransom!"

Trapper sighed again, but perked up at the sound of an approaching car. "Is that your pop?"

Hawkeye listened for a moment, then shook his head. "No, Muriel's car doesn't sound like that."

The car, however, pulled up outside, its headlights shining through the curtains as it pulled onto the drive. Hawkeye and Trapper rushed through to the hall to investigate.

Pushing his way through the creaky screen door, Hawkeye stepped out onto the porch, with Trapper beside him. The front yard was quite thick with snow, gleaming white in the moonlight. And there on the driveway was an equally gleaming Oldsmobile station wagon. Daniel stepped out from the driver's side, slamming the door with an air of triumph.

Uncaring of the cold, Hawkeye crunched through the snow, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. "Dad! What _is_ this?"

Daniel laughed, making his way around the vehicle to stand at his son's side. "What is it? It's an almost-brand-new 1949 Oldsmobile 76! And it's yours." He dropped the keys into Hawkeye's hand.

"You're _kidding_!" Hawkeye's eyes were almost popping out of his skull.

"Well, I didn't exactly do much for your birthday this year…"

"I said I didn't _want_ anything!"

"Yeah, you did. But this is something you _need_ , so I figured I could get away with it."

"Dad! I…" Overwhelmed, Hawkeye stepped closer to the car, running his hands over the pristine bodywork. It was a gorgeous dark teal, with a warm wood trim and shining chrome. "You bought me a _car_?! Trapper, can you _believe_ this?" He grinned back at Trapper, who was hanging back on the porch with his hands in his pockets, shivering slightly in the cold. "Come on! Come look at our new baby! She's _perfect_! Ooh – my little tootsies are just _itching_ to get to the gas pedal!"

Trapper obliged, trudging through the snow and running his fingers over one chrome wing mirror. "There was no emergency, was there?" He glanced knowingly at Daniel.

Daniel shrugged and gave a cheeky smile. "The car's been at Muriel's for a couple of days now. I just needed an excuse for her to come pick me up so I could bring it over."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Hawkeye grabbed his father and hugged him, practically squeezing the very breath out of him. " _Thank you_. I really don't… I mean… Thank you! You didn't have to do this!"

"Sure I did. Look, you don't know where the next few years are gonna take you! You need _wheels_ , kid. I know you're not the world's greatest driver, and I know you know diddly-squat about maintenance…"

"Yeah…" Hawkeye shifted, embarrassed.

"… and I think we can all remember that time you smashed yourself in the mouth with the tire iron the first time you got a flat."

"Dad!"

"But I don't want you rattling around that city without the means to get yourself from A to B. Besides…" He paused, looking guilty for a moment as he clasped his son's hand in his own.

Trapper filled in the rest for himself. "You're not comin'."

Daniel shook his head. "With this cold weather coming on, a lot of our old folk are going to be vulnerable. I can't afford to get stranded in Boston if the weather keeps on like this. I need to be here."

Hawkeye's face fell. "You're not making the drive with us?"

"I can't. Not at this time of year. That's partly why I got you the car. You can't be dependent on me every time you need to relocate, and… well, I hate to say it, but with things the way they are, I can see you having trouble in that department."

"But…, you didn't have to do this! We could've waited! Gone down some other time!"

"When? After the winter? Come on, you know it could be two months until this thaws. Besides, this young man here has an appointment to keep, and believe me, you don't need to go upsetting the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs McIntyre any more than you have already."

Hawkeye scowled. "Oh, well God forbid I _upset Louise_! Especially as we're such _pals_ these days! I mean, I don't know what I'd do without her."

"Hey!" Daniel's tone was sharp, but he didn't raise his voice. Still, it was enough for Hawkeye to sit up and pay attention, as he continued: "Now, I know better than anyone else in the world that you're a free spirit, and you don't like answering to anybody except yourself, but you're in a _partnership_ now, and part of that means having to take responsibility for the things that matter to one another. Whether you like it or not, this young man has obligations outside of you – namely two little girls who he hasn't seen in a long time. And take it from me, there's nothing on this earth harder than being a parent and being kept apart from your children. _Nothing_!" Daniel's grasp tightened a little around Hawkeye's hand. "You'll be back this way soon, I'm sure of it, but in the meantime…" He glanced up towards Trapper, who was loitering a few feet away. "… get this man back to Boston, make nice with the Mrs, and let him see his kids."

Hawkeye gave Trapper an apologetic glance and nodded toward the car. "Guess we'd better load up."

Giving the pair of them a satisfied nod, Daniel stuffed his hands in his pockets and trudged off towards the house.

"Doctor Pierce?" Trapper called after him, shivering a little in the snow.

Daniel turned.

Hawkeye's hand crept into Trapper's as he spoke: "I just wanted to say, thank you for this. An' for puttin' me up. An' for… everything else."

Daniel nodded and smiled. "Please, call me Daniel. Only my patients call me 'Doctor Pierce', and, from where I'm standing at least, there's nothing wrong with you."

With those words, he headed into the house. Trapper shot Hawkeye a smile, and gave his hand a squeeze. "C'mon – let's load up an' haul out."

* * *

The Oldsmobile drove like a dream, even in the rough weather. Once they were out on the freshly ploughed freeway, they were purring along without a hitch. Snow-covered pines shot past the windows as they devoured mile after mile. The freeway was empty, and Hawkeye took great delight in pushing the engine that little bit more, until Trapper leaned over and calmly said, "Let's just get there in one piece, huh?"

He eased back a little, and they continued on their way. And then, as, at last, they rumbled across the Memorial Bridge, Hawkeye suddenly slowed down, finally pulling to a halt at the side of the road.

Trapper shot him a curious look. "What the hell're ya doin'? We can't stop here!"

"Relax, would you? There's no traffic! Come take a walk with me." With those words, he got out of the car.

" _Hawkeye_! What the hell…?!"

But Hawkeye was already gone and stepping up onto the sidewalk. Trapper had little choice but to follow him, shivering in the cold night air. The snow was coming down again, flurrying around them, huge flakes of it covering them. Trapper huffed, his breath producing a cloud of steam. "You picked a hell of a time to try an' stand with one foot in New Hampshire and one foot in Maine!"

Hawkeye blinked at him "You know, all the years I lived here, I've never done that…"

And then a moment later, he was off, shoving the snow aside with his boots so he could find the State line painted on the tarmac.

"Oh, _Jeez_." Trapper rolled his eyes.

"Oh, relax. That's not what this about," Hawkeye assured him, pulling him closer for warmth as they stood there on the bridge, with one foot in New Hampshire and one foot in Maine. Hawkeye was visibly shivering in his coat, hatless and gloveless to the winter air, his face flushed pink in the cold. But he pressed on. "There's something I wanted to do before I left."

Trapper shivered. "Whatever it is, do it fast."

Hawkeye took a deep breath, his gaze drifting to the river beneath them, and then following it to the horizon where it faded into the darkness. There was a tense, faraway look in his eyes and Trapper knew better than to rush him. At last, he spoke: "Things are going to be different when we get to Boston. A lot different. Different to Maine, different to Korea, _definitely_ different to life before we got drafted. It's not going to be easy, and I need to warn you, I do _not_ have the best track record when it comes to relationships."

Trapper moved closer, rested his forehead gently against Hawkeye's. "I ain't expectin' an' easy ride, Hawk. I ain't as dumb as I look."

"Well, _good_. Because I've gotta find who I am all over again!"

"What are you talkin' about? You know damned well who you are! I ain't ever met a guy so sure of himself!"

"You don't get it. I've dedicated myself to medicine since I was twenty years old! Well, the army took that – they took everything that was ever important to me – but they gave me you. So… this is where I make a fresh start with the only thing I have left; the only thing that matters to me anymore outside of my family and my hometown. Everything else is history."

Hawkeye reluctantly pulled away from Trapper's warm embrace, and rummaged in his pocket. He withdrew his hand a moment later, held it up, and loosened his fist. From the confines of his fingers, a shining chain escaped. Dangling at the end of it, swinging gently in the winter breeze, were his dog tags. "I wore these," he explained, "for three weeks after I got home. They reminded me of you; the way you kissed me that last night in the Swamp; how you held them so tight they left a mark, just like you left a mark on me. I wore them because I wasn't ready to let move on. Well… here we are, moving on together, and leaving a whole lot behind."

He ran the steel chain through his fingers, tilted one tag up, and read it theatrically: "'Pierce, Benjamin Franklin. 19907560.' O-3, US Army, AMEDD." His expression darkened for a moment. "Recipient of an undesirable discharge. Captain. Womaniser. Surgeon… _Former_ surgeon." Despite the weight of his words, a smile crossed his features as he looked up into Trapper's eyes. "Well, what's done is done, and what's passed is passed. Water under the bridge." Once again, he gathered the tags and chain up in his clenched fist. Then, stepping up to the barrier on the Memorial Bridge, he pulled back and flung them as far as he could. The cold steel glistened in the moonlight as it sailed through the night sky. And then, a moment later, it vanished into the darkness of the Piscataqua River.

Hawkeye stood there for a moment, breathing in the feeling of freedom. It was strange – he'd barely felt it when he'd been discharged, weighed down as he was by the enormity of wondering what lay ahead of him, and he'd hardly been aware of it over the months since, but now, standing on the border about to start a new life, he finally felt free of the shackles of army life. His discharge might continue to loom over him, and nothing would alter that, but his life was his own again, and now, against all the odds, he'd made his own choice of who to spend it with.

A moment later, Trapper's arms closed around him once more, and he turned gratefully into his embrace, hugging him back. "From here on out…" His voice was shaking when he spoke.

"… We're in this together." Trapper nodded, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Hawkeye smiled, burrowing into the warmth of Trapper's arms. "In all kinds of weather."

And there, on the Maine-New Hampshire border, Trapper held him and kissed him. And even as the snow continued to fall around them and the breeze whipped across the river, they barely even felt the chill.

* * *

 _This chapter marks the end of this particular episode, but the series will continue next week. Many thanks to everyone who has shared their thoughts and reactions. Feel free to follow me on Tumblr under 'hawkeye-piercintyre', and my comrade-in-arms 'captaintransvestite'. See you all next week!_


End file.
